


Invocation of the Muse

by Nenalata



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Grad School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anko Is A Shitty Professor, Complete Opposite of a Slow Burn, Consensual, Deidara Is A Shitty Roommate, Devotion, Drawing A Portrait While Portrait-Sitter Is Asleep, Drinking, Except Maybe Not Super Sane, F/M, Graduate School, Gratuitous Use of the Word "Cock", Hook-Up, Krav Maga, Life-Drawing Classes, Not Sure If It's A Happy Ending But, Obsession, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Romance, Rough Kissing, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sasori and Itachi have a bromance, Should I Tag "Drawing A Portrait While Portrait-Sitter Is Asleep", Something Certainly Ends So, Unhealthy Relationships, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, ending, fast burn, probably, roughish sex, tagging as we go, words you never thought you'd read maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: She needs to finish college. He needs to leave his mark on the world. Dangerous habits will sustain you when obsessive inspiration fails.Art School AU.





	1. Of Heaven and Prophecy

**Author's Note:**

> "Descend from Heav’n Urania, by that name
> 
> If rightly thou art call’d, whose Voice divine
> 
> Following, above th’Olympian Hill I soare,
> 
> Above the flight of Pegasean wing."
> 
> \--Milton, Paradise Lost Book VII, ll 5-7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the initial rating from M to Explicit, which I probably should have done in the first place--I offer past readers belated apologies for the false advertisement like a year ago and open arms to the new ones. But perhaps the E rating makes it more....Enticing? Exciting? Electric? sEductive?

 

“What do you even need for a life-drawing class?” Sakura stared at the rows and rows of sketchbooks, labels boasting all different sizes and materials. Watercolor versus charcoal versus oil versus spiral-bound versus—

“Didn’t you read the friggin’ syllabus?” Ino shook a stapled packet in front of Sakura’s face, and Sakura flinched away. “Eighteen by twenty-four charcoal. BYOC—bring your own charcoal.”

Sakura glared at her. “I don’t waste paper, Ino. She sent us a PDF.”

Ino stuck out her tongue sideways through her grinning lips. What an ugly expression. “And yet you still didn’t read it.”

She ignored her friend and grabbed the correct sketchpad. “All right, that’s that. Where are the charcoal whatevers?”

Several shelf-browsings later, Ino and Sakura stood in the long line to the art store counter, arms full of charcoal, sketchbooks, canvas bags, and other expensive supplies listed on the syllabus. The line moved quickly; the redheaded cashier scanned items and rang up students with blinding speed, moving on to the next customer before the previous one had even left the counter.

“Boy, you’re efficient,” Ino chirped at him as she and Sakura dumped their supplies on the counter. The cashier didn’t respond, but flicked his eyes up at her from where his lightning-fast hands were tossing items into a Suna University-stamped paper bag. Sakura shuffled her purchases closer to the register while Ino paid, but he held up a hand to stop her, the other jabbing numbers into the credit card machine. He hadn’t even said the price.

“One customer at a time.”

Ino made a face at her from behind his turned head, and he stiffened and lifted his bent head as if he could sense Ino’s mockery. Instead, however, he pierced Sakura with an intense, blazing look.

“Next.”

Sakura froze, momentarily forgetting how to use her limbs. She clutched her wallet to her chest and stared. How did genes work like that? How unfair was it, genetically and logically and aesthetically, to give a boy of university age such clear, smooth skin and deep honey-colored eyes?

The cashier snapped his fingers in front of her face, just once, and she recoiled, senses coming to life again. “Next, I said.”

It only took another ten seconds for him to ring her up, silent once more. She and Ino lugged their paper bags out of the art store, huffing under their weight, but Sakura couldn’t help looking behind her at the cashier. His head was down again, face obscured by the next student in line’s body, but his hands were a blur. As the customer paid, he grabbed the next roll of fabric, scanning and tossing it aside in the same movement. The customer hurried out of the store, and the cashier, seeming to sense Sakura’s eyes on him, glanced her way.

“He was fuckin’ rude, wasn’t he?” Ino complained, following her stare. Sakura adjusted her grip on her bags and shook her head.

“Let’s just go.”

She could’ve sworn a ghost of a smile had flashed across his lips as she turned away.

* * *

 

Sasori wrinkled his nose as the flat door clicked shut behind him. The TV was on, tuned to the news, which was unusual enough on its own. No one was watching it. Sasori suspected the reason for that—out of character channel notwithstanding—was to mask the moans and grunts coming from his flatmate’s open door. It wasn’t very efficient, and they didn’t seem like they were going to stop any time soon.

Sasori clicked the TV off—the bed-squeaking paused self-consciously—and headed to his own room, closing the door behind him. He hated wasting electricity when the utilities and water bills were already spiking, his flatmate’s privacy be dammed. Deidara took long showers in addition to his electrical installation work.

He sat at the wheel in the only messy corner of his small room, and was soon lost in his work. There was a certain rhythm to pottery, his foot on the pedal and the creaking of his grandmother’s wheel and his hands on the clay, punctuated by the occasional sprinkle of water. He hadn’t set out to make anything in particular when he sat down, just warm up. The first critique of the year had already been assigned, and he was ready to put the other so-called artists in his cohort to shame, but it wouldn’t do to rush into a project.

It was a bowl. His warmups were always bowls, because it was the easiest thing to do. But it was weak to stick with _easy_. Perhaps for this critique, he’d make a set of nesting stylized bowls. Take what everyone else would do and make it a little extra. He would’ve preferred woodworking as the first project, but his free ride dictated his coursework, and this experimental design class was unfortunately part of that.

The bowl collapsed under his fingers, and Sasori hummed in irritation. He hadn’t even realized the aches in his stomach, and the weakness of his body had distracted him. The reason why the pottery wheel was in his room instead of where the rest of his art materials were was precisely because the wheel was purely exercise and thus its creations were impermanent. If Sasori wanted something real to take to the kiln, he’d work on campus. Unfortunately, Deidara took delight in impermanence—got a kick out of Sasori destroying his clay creations.

Loud laughter disrupted him. Sasori sighed and rose, cricking his neck as he opened the door and headed to the bathroom to wash his caked hands.

“Heyyy, it’s my man Sasori!” A shirtless Deidara paused from where he was putting a pair of plates on the table. Sasori’s eye twitched when he saw a busty girl with cherry red curls in Deidara’s t-shirt giggling at the table. In Sasori’s chair. “Finally emerged from your cave, yeah?”

“I could say the same for you.”

Deidara called something probably lascivious after him, but Sasori was already in the bathroom, scrubbing the clay off his hands.

There had been a girl in the art store today.

There had been lots of girls, sure, Sasori reminded himself, leaning over the sink and staring at his reflection. He’d seen them all there before, boring, talentless. But there had been one girl with hair like cherry blossoms in spring, eyes like cut jade. Certainly boring and talentless like all the others. But the idea of a nesting set of cherry blossom bowls appealed to him, hadn’t quite occurred to him until he’d noticed Deidara’s latest lay. 

There was something to be said for finding inspiration in unlikely places, something to be said for the human body after all.

“Move,” Sasori said to Deidara’s conquest upon his return to the kitchen. Outrage sparked in the girl’s eyes, and she looked to Deidara to defend her honor. A smirk twitched on Sasori’s lips when Deidara only shrugged.

“It’s his chair, yeah.”

She slid out of the seat, glaring daggers at him the whole time. Sasori claimed his chair triumphantly and helped himself to the sloppy fried rice in a chipped bowl on the table. But the girl looked mollified when Deidara slid his arms around her waist and pulled her onto his lap with a whisper.

Sasori ate his rice while the lovers abandoned their meal in favor of other activities. Deidara was a loud, messy, hotheaded annoyance of a roommate, but occasionally, he wasn’t as useless as everyone else.

Cherry blossoms, he mused while washing his dishes, leaving the fried rice pan for Deidara to clean up. Cherry blossoms would be impressive.

* * *

 

“Why’s your bag so heavy?” Ino complained, rubbing her sandaled foot. She’d kicked Sakura’s bag under the table to make her point about some gossip, and was now regretting it.

“Biochem textbooks,” Sakura sighed. “I’m being robbed, Ino. Suna University is holding me up at gunpoint and demanding I spend my loan money on the most up-to-date editions.”

Ino made a face. “I’m so glad I’m not in STEM.”

“It’s just a minor. I can’t imagine what double-majoring would do to me.”

“Evening, everyone,” a commanding voice rang through the studio. A mumbled “good evening, Professor Mitarashi” followed. The professor, a surprisingly young woman with hair pulled into a quirky bun, raised her eyebrows.

“Man, I hate art students sometimes,” she scoffed. An insulted Ino twitched next to Sakura, who kicked her. “Just call me Anko. I can’t believe how ingrained politeness is in academia. You’re not in a library, folks. You’re in a studio.”

Now it was Sakura’s turn to repress an eye twitch. Her own degree was a Bachelor of Arts—not the fancy Fine Arts iteration—because apparently art history wasn’t fine enough. For all of Anko’s lauding of the fine arts, there still was a need for libraries and politeness.

“Who printed out the syllabus?” A flurry of excited hands gripping packets, Ino’s included, shot into the air. Anko grimaced again. “Who does that? You’re already killing trees by drawing. I sent it out as a PDF on purpose, you know.”

Sakura waggled her eyebrows at Ino, who rightly ignored her.

“All right!” Anko clapped her hands together, the sound echoing against the linoleum floor. The class jumped. “Now that I’ve antagonized everyone in the room, let’s get to the lecture. Got your attention now, at least.”

It was a four-hour studio. Four hours was an inhuman amount of time. Sakura’s longest classes—biochem lab included—were an hour and fifty minutes with a ten-minute break lumped in halfway. Not for the first or last time, she cursed the art history degree requirements. This was her last required class before graduation in the spring, and she’d put it off as long as she could.  While Anko talked about anatomy and charcoal shading and portraits, Sakura took lazy notes on her tablet and thought about the frightening world awaiting her post-graduation. She slid her eyes over to Ino, who was enraptured. At least someone was enjoying herself.

“Enough of that,” Anko finally said, wiping her smudged fingers off on her already-blackened capri pants. “Let’s try and put this theoretical shit to work. Let’s get our model in here. Take a break while we get set up.”

“Naked time,” Ino whispered to her, and Sakura rolled her eyes. Ino grinned and flicked her forehead. “You’re blushing. Are you ten?”

“Don’t do that,” Sakura warned, but it came out as more of a whine. 

“At least you’re not modeling, right? You’d throw off everyone’s proportions with your giant-ass forehead.”

“It’s my first drawing class,” Sakura replied, choosing to pretend the age-old taunt hadn’t affected her. “I feel like I took good notes, but I won’t be able to apply them.”

Ino’s expression softened. “It’s totally gonna be okay. You’re here to learn, you know? No one’s judging.”

“Everyone, meet our model. Sasori, you know the drill.” Anko’s voice boomed across the studio again.

“That totally wasn’t a break,” Ino muttered, but Sakura was staring at the model standing in front of the chaise, wrapped in a silk robe. 

It was the cashier from the art store last week. He surveyed the class, casting a slow, bored gaze around the students on stools. His movements were measured, relaxed, and uninterested—a total contrast from his impatience at the store.

He was looking at her now. Sakura held her breath, fumbling with her plastic case, fingers slipping over pencils and brushes and every instrument other than charcoal. The way he looked at her would have been described as electric or hungry in a romance novel, but in reality, his expression was completely unreadable. He looked away, and without any of his previous slow movements, shrugged off the robe.

Everyone in the room was already bent over their sketchpads, charcoal in hand. Anko was on the other side of the room, observing and quietly commenting on each student’s work she passed, and as she started to turn her head Sakura’s way, Sakura quickly followed Ino’s example. Light, precise strokes were already shaping themselves under Ino’s careful fingers. Sakura’s fingers felt heavy on her own charcoal. 

Sasori, as the cashier was apparently named, reclined on the chaise, one arm behind his head and the other carelessly tossed over his stomach. His gleaming red hair was tousled on the beige pillow underneath his head, and he’d closed his eyes, feigning sleep. 

Sakura tried not to focus on how wiry his frame was, how delicate his features were, the way his chest rose ever so slightly with his breathing, the gentle curve to his cock— _penis_ , that was crass, look somewhere else.

Instead, after she’d sketched out a vague approximation of his body, she focused on details. He had painted fingernails, dark on his tan skin and occasionally twitching against his ribcage. He had the hint of a wrist tattoo, something faded red, but that was the hand tucked under his head, so it was a little hard to make out. On his chest, just visible on his sternum and creeping towards one dark nipple, was a white line, perhaps a scar—

“Where’s his cock?” Anko’s voice made Sakura jump, her charcoal stroke going wide. Ino snorted, but she wasn’t alone—the other students in the room tittered from behind their sketchpads. Anko glanced at her phone, and Sakura noticed the class roster on the screen. “This is anatomy. A bio minor like you knows some people have cocks. You see it? He has one. Go on, look.” Anko pointed, right at it. Sakura reluctantly obeyed, trying to unfocus her eyes. “Good. See? Now draw.”

Anko moved on once she was satisfied with Sakura’s furious scribbling, leaving her alone to let her face burn in peace. She looked up and down from Sasori’s body to her sketchpad, painfully conscious of Anko’s praising of Ino’s shading. 

Sakura looked up one more time, only to see Sasori had opened his eyes, just a slit. He didn’t look away when she met his gaze, and Sakura had the distinctly embarrassing sensation that he’d been watching her without her noticing. She swallowed, feeling her hairline tingle. 

His lips unfurled in a smile—no, a half-smile. A flash of teeth and quirked lips. Sakura’s charcoal felt sweaty in her fingers.

His eyes slid shut, the smirk gone as suddenly as it had appeared, and did not reopen again until Anko announced the end of class and wished them all good night.

* * *

 

“How was showing off your junk to a bunch of undergrads, yeah?” 

Deidara could rot in hell. Sasori had barely closed the door.

“Informative,” Sasori said tersely. Deidara smirked at him from where he was reclining on the couch, in a position not unlike the one Sasori had held for two hours in the studio. He pushed Deidara’s feet off the cushions and sat down, tugging off his shoes.

“Sasori,” Deidara began, uncharacteristically slowly. Sasori raised a brow, but when Deidara didn’t continue, he slapped Deidara’s leg with one of his shoes. His flatmate scowled. “I was thinking, yeah. Trying my best not to annoy you with what I’m gonna say.”

“You were making me wait too long. I hate—“

“You hate being kept waiting, I know, yeah.” Deidara’s imitation of his voice wasn’t accurate in the slightest. “I just was gonna tell you I had, uh, an accident.”

Sasori rose and stretched. His shoes dangled from his fingers, and he headed for his room. “Wet the bed?”

“Fuck you. No, I meant you maybe shouldn’t go in your room right now.”

Sasori’s blood froze in his veins. “Were you in my room, Deidara?” he intoned, voice deceptively smooth.

“No! I mean, only for a little. I needed clay. And—“

Sasori slammed open the door to his room and rushed inside, heart restarted and racing. The fired and glazed cherry blossom bowls lay in pieces on the floor, each one cracked down the middle, all rough edges and _waste_. 

“You could try out kintsugi, yeah,” Deidara’s meek voice sounded from the living room. “Like the beauty of the broken, you know, pieced together—“

Sasori tuned him out instead of the more violent alternative. With trembling fingers, he bent and picked up the largest piece, a light green petal from what was once the middle bowl. The glaze shone in the lamplight, like something alive, something ruined.

He gripped the shard in his hand, its edges cutting into the uncallused parts of his palm. The pain gave him something to focus on, even as the split skin oozed red blood.

The critique was next week. He had to seek inspiration, again, before next week. 

“Hey, Sasori, my man,” Deidara, a man who didn’t know when to quit, peeked through the doorway. “I’m sorry, yeah.”

Sasori turned, inch by inch, to face him, clenched fist shaking and dripping blood through his fingers onto the carpet. Whatever showed on his face made Deidara rethink his apology and existence, because Deidara babbled an excuse and fled, the door to his own room booming shut. 

If Deidara was the one who was going to stay, Sasori needed to get out. He pocketed the bloody fragment and took his time wrapping a bandage around his hand. Then out into the night again, autumn air too chilly and the Muses silent.

* * *

 

Every time she tried to close her eyes, the sound of her classmates’ laughter assaulted her memory. Sakura had thought she’d had a long enough day to conk her out, but apparently, humiliation overruled exhaustion. She glanced at her alarm clock—too late o’clock.

She had a nine-am seminar in the morning. This wasn’t fair. 

With a frustrated groan, Sakura rolled out of bed, sheets clinging to her body like they were reluctant to let her free. She shook them off and slipped on a pair of sandals, then, after another moment to think, threw on a zip-up hoodie for good measure. Might as well see who was out at the student union.

It was an old habit. Sasuke had often spent the witching hour at the student union, so it was a good place to find him when Sakura couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t there now, of course, but her eyes couldn’t help drifting over to the corner where he used to be found slumped over a cooling coffee and an unread law text.

She ordered a milk steamer with a pump of rose syrup from the barely-conscious barista and was soon back to strolling aimlessly around the empty campus, hands a little warm and pajama-short legs still cold. It was better to ignore it—maybe the combination of hot milk and cold legs would encourage her to go back to sleep later.

Sakura looked in the general direction of her dorm, loathing the thought of being stuck another few sleepless hours in her bed, when the realization struck her. 

She’d left her student ID card in her room.

Sakura pressed the paper cup to her cheek and groaned. She didn’t have her phone, either. The best bet would be to wait until she stumbled upon some other sleepwalker and have them let her in. But what were the odds at this hour? 

Footsteps. Sakura jerked her head away from the cup. Apparently, the odds were good.

A lamppost illuminated a solitary figure, walking slowly on straight pavement towards her. Dark red hair and a delicate face. Sasori hadn’t seemed to notice her, although she was right in front of him.

Odds were against her anyway.

Sakura took a deep breath, deciding to face the source of her embarrassment-induced insomnia. She forced a smile on her face. “Hi. Sasori, right?”

Sasori stopped in his tracks. He blinked a few times before he seemed to recognize her.

“I don’t know your name.”

If only he’d said he didn’t actually know her. “I’m Sakura,” she said before she could regret it. “You’re out late, huh?”

“What are you doing?” he asked, acknowledging her question with a quick jerk of his head. “It’s dangerous for a young woman to be out at night in a pair of shorts.”

Sakura’s lips pressed in a thin line. “I can handle myself, thanks. I know self-defense.”

Sasori only pointed at her legs, polish glinting under the streetlight glow. “Self-defense doesn’t protect you from the wind.”

Sakura bit her lip and looked at her own legs, as if surprised to see them there. “I guess. But I’m locked out of my dorm. Can you let me in? It’s just past the Union.”

“Nope.”

Sakura’s head shot up, a scowl coming naturally to her face, but Sasori was expressionless again. No malicious eye-roll or predatory smile. He tilted his head and stared back with hooded lids.

“I’m a grad student,” he explained, gesturing vaguely to the campus gates. “I live off-campus. No dorm access in my ID.”

Sakura’s shoulders drooped. “Guess I’m stuck for a while,” she said with a little mirthless laugh. “Maybe there’s someone in the library.”

“I’m going there, too.” He fell into step beside her. He didn’t look prepared for the weather, either, for all his comments. He wore a grey v-neck t-shirt and jeans, hands now shoved into the pockets. She couldn’t see his tattoo and absently wondered what it was.

There was no one in the library but the bored student workers, who said no, they weren’t allowed to leave or lend her their IDs. Sakura seethed, and Sasori, silent and leaning against the circulation desk, didn’t bother to help. 

“At least it’s warm in here,” he remarked after she’d stormed away into the empty reading room. “You could probably sleep on one of those couches if you’re tired.”

The sofas weren’t the most appealing of choices, given how many Suna University students had planted themselves in them over the years, but a sudden surge of fatigue and the need to lie down had her walking towards one of them without thought. She sank onto the well-used cushions and lay down, self-consciously looking around for Sasori, but he was gone.

Sakura jolted awake when the sound of loud voices floated in, growing steadily in volume. She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep. She sat up, groggy, ruffling her already-ruffled hair, blinking the world into focus. 

Sasori sat across from her on an armchair that had not been there before, leaning over a sketchpad that had also not been there before. His eyes slowly rose from his work after she’d stared for a second too long, but he shot an irritated look at the door, where the noisy students were trailing in. 

“What are you doing here?” Sakura asked, voice heavy with sleep. The irritation faded out of his expression as he slid his gaze back to her.

“I’m drawing you,” he said, as if that explained everything. When she bristled, a pleased grin slashed across his face. “Practicing. I have to produce something new for my critique next week. My flatmate destroyed my original work.”

Sleep hung too heavy on her to follow the logic of his sentences. “Sorry to hear that,” was all she could manage.

“You could go back to sleep,” Sasori suggested, returning to the sketchpad. She heard the light brush of pencil on paper and reached up to her hair self-consciously. “It makes for an interesting contrast.”

“Contrast?”

Sasori paused. He looked deep in thought. The students were settling into the other couches and armchairs, jostling backpacks and flipping pages. “Between your fire and your embers,” he finally decided. Then that sharp smile appeared again, and he narrowed his eyes. The intensity burning in his amber irises made Sakura tug her hair hard enough to hurt. She felt powerless to look away. “Between you drawing me and me drawing you.”

Sakura looked away, fast, memories of laughter ringing in her ears and blood rushing to her cheeks. “Sorry,” she mumbled, but Sasori made a disapproving hum.

“Don’t offer useless apologies. It’s the exchange of art and practice. The price of immortalizing one’s work.”

She didn’t want to look at him, him or his body. She was too tired to make sense of his words.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Ten in the morning.”

Sakura leapt off the couch and tripped on her sandal. Sasori raised his eyebrows, mouth open to speak, but whatever he was going to say, she didn’t have time to hear.

It was only later, after she’d stayed after the seminar ended to apologize to her professor, that she thought about what he’d said. 

Fire and embers.

She wondered how the sketch of her sleeping had turned out. She wondered if she even wanted to know.

 


	2. Of Lyrics and Torches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, Erato, thy poet's mind inspire
> 
> And fill his soul with thy celestial fire!
> 
> —Virgil, Aeneid, Book VII ll.37-8

 

"You must be the laziest poli-sci major I know," Sakura said to Naruto's sleeping form, collapsed and drooling on his tablet. She hadn't noticed when he'd first dropped off, but the loud snoring from the carrel right behind her had certainly distracted her from her own studying.

As if he'd heard her, Naruto smacked his lips and lifted his head from the tablet. Bleary-eyed, he wiped the drool from his cheek and stretched his neck. "Sakura, be honest with me," he groaned, "how long was I out?"

"No clue, slacker," she answered honestly, leaning her chair on its back legs. "I just heard the snoring. As did everyone else in the library."

"Shit," he muttered, rubbing a hand on the back of his head. "I'm not gonna get anywhere like this. It's only week three."

He wasn't laughing it off like she'd expected. Sakura reached out a hand to comfort him, but he bent over his tablet again and start scrolling and highlighting in earnest.

Hinata had told her he wasn't sleeping well, but she'd said so in such a light, adoring way devoid of criticism. Sakura hadn't realized that Naruto was in such a bad place.

Making a mental note to take him out to his favorite ramen food truck, Sakura focused on her own work. It was a rather dry reading on shoji panels from the Edo period, which should have been interesting but wasn't. It made it easy for her mind to wander.

Sasori, to her relief, had not been the model this past week in life-drawing. A woman with blue hair, a lip piercing, and papery white skin had stood for the whole two hours, changing poses only once. Konan, as Anko had introduced her, was another graduate student in the fine arts program, and had been warm to the undergrads who'd stopped to talk to her about Suna's graduate program afterwards. The difference between her and Sasori was tangible.

Sakura hadn't seen him at all since he'd neglected to wake her in the library. According to Konan, modeling for the undergrads paid pretty well, but it was only on a session-by-session basis. Sakura had not bothered to ask her if she knew Sasori.

She also didn't bother wondering what had sparked her interest, and so quickly. Handsome men who blew her off or embarrassed her unfortunately tended to be her type. She wished she could have something like Naruto and Hinata did, who had always been nothing but affectionate to each other. While watching the two of them dance circles around each other for the past three and a half years had been painful, it was also endearing to see their endless respect for each other and their boundaries play out. It also made them more tolerable to hang out with as a couple, since no one was waiting for them to kiss.

Sakura surreptitiously checked on Naruto again. Still focused on his reading, quietly mumbling facts and dates to himself. Her own readings clearly didn't hold enough interest for her, while miserably poring over embarrassing people in her life did. Whispering goodbye to Naruto, who barely acknowledged it, she packed up her messenger back and headed back to her dorm for a change of clothes and water bottle. Maybe she just needed to get her blood pumping.

* * *

_Jab cross jab knee_

The punching bag groaned on its chains, swinging towards him. Sasori whipped to its other side and continued the drill in one swift motion.

_Jab cross jab cut_

Pottery was one of his weaker points. He could admit it now, with sweat trickling down his neck and a comfortable burn in his muscles and a satisfyingly solid bag to hit. He wasn't able to admit it in the studio, but now, his mind blank, he recognized his weakness.

_Jab cross jab kick_

That wasn't to say he'd made shit like some of his cohort had. Sure enough, four "artists" out of the fifteen had made bowls. One of them had even taken up kintsugi for her bowl, clearly trying to mask the fact that she'd dropped it bringing it back from the kiln. Even Professor Tenzou hadn't fallen for it, in that serene way of his, although he'd encouraged her to continue studying the technique as if it had been an intentional fuck-up.

_Jab cross cut cut_

He'd made a coil jar. It had taken him longer than he'd thought, since, thanks to Deidara, Sasori had lost a whole week of work and refining time. Still, its light pink coils were neat and stable, swirling upwards around nothing and fanning out at the mouth of the jar. Like hair splayed across a pillow.

_Jab kick elbow_

Sasori slowed, and the punching bag responded in kind. His drill grew meditative rather than aggressive. When it had been his turn for critique, he'd received a few jealous smiles from the rest of the cohort, but they didn't matter. Even Professor Tenzou, offering polite suggestions, didn't matter.

_Kick cross elbow knee_

What mattered was that Sasori knew the coil jar, while potentially interesting in concept, was sloppy, hurried work that no one deserved to see. And yet everyone had.

How many reps had that been? Sasori stared down the creaking punching bag, arms at his sides ready for another strike despite his panting. After a moment of consideration, he relaxed. It was enough. He could feel calm slipping over his expression like a cool mask. The regular afternoon noises of the gym filtered back into his awareness, and he left the bag to grab a wipe for it.

There was a familiar person tying her shoes on the bench near the wipe dispenser. Her head was down, and she didn't even look up as he reached around her. Sasori guessed she was ignoring him—probably for good reason. Knowing himself as he did, he probably wouldn't've been polite to someone who'd made him inexcusably late for something. He pulled a wet wipe out of the dispenser and a towel from the stack next to it. While drying his face and hair on the towel, his skin prickled. She was looking at him.

He slung the towel over his shoulders quickly enough that she didn't have time to hide, pretend she hadn't been staring. He felt his lips tug into a slight smile and resisted the urge to flex a little like Kisame usually did.

"I owe you an apology, Sakura," he said, taking the initiative when she clearly had no idea what to say. She must have just arrived; her skin was pristine and bearing a few goosebumps from the air conditioning, and her blue sports bra peeking through her shirt straps looked fresh from the dryer. He tried to look at her face for sincerity's sake. "I held you up last week and caused you to be late for…something. I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's fine," she replied, gaze trailing to the punching bag he still hadn't wiped down.

"I'm disappointed," he said honestly. That got her attention—either that or his flat tone. "I would've thought you'd be angrier."

Sakura's eyes widened, but her lip curled. Sasori grinned down at her, delight unfurling in his chest at the sight. "You _want_ me to be angry?"

There it was. "I'd rather you just look alive," Sasori said, rubbing the towel against his neck. "You stare a lot, like a doll. When you're angry at someone, you come to life more."

She was conflicted, that much was clear on her face. Sasori dropped the towel in the used bin and returned to his punching bag, wiping it down with care. He hated coming to a bag or machine only to find it still slippery with another person's sweat.

"You don't know me," Sakura's voice said behind her. Sasori kept cleaning.

"You're right."

"I don't have to be whatever some asshole wants or expects."

"You don't," he agreed, turning to face her and the trash bin behind her. "Excuse me." He slid past her, and her hand shot out, lightning fast, towards his face.

But Sasori was faster. His elbow connected with her inner arm, knocking her strike off-balance. Before she had time to react, he hooked his other arm around hers, keeping it from flailing wildly, and pressed, lightly enough without posing a threat but offering a warning.

Sakura's green eyes were huge, mouth open in shock. There were flecks of gold in her irises, Sasori noted. He released her, aware of more than a few eyes on them, and offered her his arm as she wobbled with the sudden freedom. She took it.

"I probably deserved that," Sasori remarked. The wipe, at some point, had fallen to the gym mat, but Sakura didn't seem ready to let go yet.

"No, you didn't," she sighed, giving his arm a squeeze without seeming to be aware of doing so. "Now it's my turn to apologize. Is that—move what you were practicing earlier?"

"You were watching me, then?" he asked, pleased when she mumbled something dismissive. "Krav maga is useful, especially for self-defense. If you wanted more, take advantage of what Suna University has to offer."

Sakura let go of his arm like it had decided to burn her. He took the opportunity to toss the wipe in the trash.

"You could teach me," she suggested quietly when he returned, arms behind her back. Sasori didn't have time to school his features as heat shot to his groin.

"I'm busy," he managed to say. But his head tilted of its own accord, making every commonly understood sign of considering.

Where had this come from? If he was reading the situation right…He searched his memories of the past two minutes for anything he might have said that would have elicited this kind of suggestion from her. Whatever it was, Sasori didn't think he minded.

"You could make me angry," she said, still quietly, but when she fixed her eyes on him, they were alight with a dark fire. "I could probably fight better if you actually made me angry."

A laugh betrayed him. He tried to reign it in, but it ended up only sounding dark, at least to his ears. He stepped closer and noticed when she didn't step back. "You're playing a fun game," he said to her, peering at her from under the fringe of his messy, sweaty hair. She was chewing the inside of her cheek, it looked like. A slip in her collected, flirtatious demeanor. "I'd rather play a game than fight you."

They considered each other, tense and testing. Sasori resisted the urge to size her up, to slide his gaze to her exposed legs up to her chest or collarbones or neck. He wondered if she was resisting similar impulses, and was suddenly gripped with curiosity of how she'd drawn him as a model.

Sakura lost. She looked away. "You can have my number," she granted him, voice firm as if she were in control of the situation. Maybe she was. Maybe she'd seen through everything.

They went back to the bench. He sent her a text. She showed him her phone screen when it arrived and asked him to put his name. And she turned a delicious shade of red when he handed it back and saw he'd entered "Where's His Cock?"

Sasori was quick to leave the gym before she'd recovered.

Maybe it was a bit much, but if he'd scared her off, then neither of them had wasted their time with each other. And if it wasn't, she'd change it. And something inspiring would come of it.

* * *

It wasn't Sakura's job to text him.

She didn't _mean_ to play a game of "who texted first or last." But in this case, it seemed only right. She'd made the first move, and she wasn't going to throw herself at him by pestering him immediately. She'd learned the hard way with Sasuke what happened when she came on too strong, and she wasn't about to make that mistake with someone who'd already seen her make a fool of herself. Several times.

The life-drawing class. The library nap. The pathetic attempt to slap him when her irritation got the better of her. Sakura wasn't going to add "appear desperate" to the list.

So she didn't text. The next week in life-drawing Sasori modeled again, and she expected him to stay after and bring it up, but after spending two hours sprawled leisurely on the chaise, he simply threw on his robe and departed, presumably to get changed and go home. He hadn't given any special consideration to her, which was secretly disappointing, but he did look at her headband at one point, eyes unfocused and deep in thought. What did that mean? Was he thinking about her? Was he thinking about whatever art he did? What did he even _do_? She'd given her number and attention to some asshole whom she knew nothing about.

Sakura knew her face was pink the entire class. She missed Konan.

"Look what Sai sent," Ino piped up, distracting Sakura from her wandering thoughts. Ino's phone dangled between her fingers, screen facing Sakura. One of Sai's signature ink paintings lit up the message, a stylized portrait that resembled Ino's silhouette.

"He makes you look prettier than you are," Sakura grinned. She pulled out her own phone as casually as she could manage. No new texts.

"He does, doesn't he?" Ino sighed, missing the jab. She rolled over on Sakura's bed and began typing a response. "I guess it's just how he sees me."

"Mhm," Sakura agreed, scrolling through memes. They sat in silence, Ino more focused on her boyfriend, Sakura more focused on fake bath bomb montages.

One of them was especially appropriate and surprisingly beautiful—someone had tossed an art case into the bathtub, and the next picture was of swirling paints and oils in water. Sakura snorted and passed the phone to Ino.

"That hurts me just looking at it," Ino groaned.

"Pretty, though, right?"

"I guess. Oh, you got a text—holy fuck!" Her announcement was cut off by a howl of laughter.

"What? Don't read my texts," Sakura scowled, reaching for her phone, but Ino only pressed her nose closer to the screen.

"Go to hell, Forehead. Did you fuck the model?" Sakura's skin went cold for an instant before roaring to fiery life.

"Give it back. Stop reading it."

"Oh, you totally did. I'm gonna respond." Ino began tapping on the screen, nimbly dodging Sakura's panicked swipes. Sakura elbowed Ino, who grunted, and managed to retrieve the phone just as she heard the _shwoop_ of a successfully sent text.

"Ino, you bitch," Sakura whispered, reading through the brief exchange in horror.

"It's your own fault for putting in his name as 'Where's His Cock?'"

**Fine, I'll text first.**

And Ino had replied, **I was just thinking about you.**

Innocent enough, but she _wasn't_. Who knew how he would take it? After all her attempts to appear not-desperate…She hurriedly typed another message: **Sorry, that was my bitchy friend.**

Her phone buzzed.

**Sure.**

Fucking Ino. It buzzed again.

**Come here. I need to feel inspired.**

"That's the classiest 'DTF?' I've ever seen." Ino snickered from over Sakura's shoulder.

"Ino, fuck off." Sakura's face was so warm she was surprised she wasn't delirious from fever. Her hands trembled as she tried to hide the phone from sight. "I didn't fuck him. You just made things so much worse."

"Oh, yeah? Did I ruin what was going to be a beautiful, platonic friendship?"

Another buzz. An address.

"Sakura, just think of it as a rebound," Ino said, more gently this time. "Get it out of your system. It's healthy and normal."

Sakura stared at the texts, heart hammering in her chest like it wanted to escape.

"He's not a very patient guy," she mumbled, scrolling through the concise and condemning conversation.

"Then don't keep him waiting."

* * *

It took Sasori a second to realize there was a second knock on the door. He'd thought the first had been Deidara leaving, but now it occurred to him that Deidara was still at work and had left hours ago. He dusted wood shavings off his jeans into a dish, folded up the knife, and got up from the couch to answer the door. He tried to ignore the anticipation coiling in his stomach.

She was fidgeting with the hem of a thick pink sweater when he opened the door, and her head jerked up at the sound.

"Your building was a little hard to find," were the first words out of her mouth. Her lips looked soft and shiny—lip balm season was upon them. Sasori's gaze lingered long enough to make her return to fidgeting.

"Looks like you found it fine," he disagreed, satisfied with her reaction. He turned back into the apartment, not waiting for her to take the initiative. Her sandals clicked on the hardwood floor of the entryway.

"Should I take off my shoes?"

"Yes," Sasori replied, picking up the dish full of shavings and emptying it into a waste bin by the TV. "Carpet's a pain to vacuum."

He heard Sakura fumble with the straps on her sandals, and he glanced over his shoulder to see her bent over, trying to look dainty about it without sliding her long denim skirt up. Sasori wondered if her friend really had sent the first message.

But then why had she come?

"No sketchpad?" Sasori asked, a grin tugging at his lips. "I thought we were going to work together."

It was worth it to see her get all flustered, shiny lips opening and closing as she struggled to think of what to say. He half-sat on the armrest of the sofa, something he hated when Deidara did it. Sasori let the grin grow into a smile, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. "I'm kidding. It's just me who needs inspiration."

Unsurprisingly, Sakura stalked over to him, slamming a hand down on the cushion closest to his perch. Sasori didn't flinch, lifting his chin. A challenge. There was that dark fire in her green eyes again, and the anticipation in his stomach twisted again.

"What's your deal?" she hissed, fingers digging into the cushion. He glanced at where her nails lightly scratched the pleather.

"You're going to ruin my couch."

"I have no idea what you want from me. What game are you trying to play?" And now he saw the edges of those flames, the trepidation, the worry she'd been wrong and misread him. She hadn't been in control at the gym. She'd been brave. But bravery was nothing without fear.

Sasori smiled again, admiring the way her hair fell around her shoulders, the frayed hem of the sweater where she'd tugged at it outside his door, her lips pursed in frustration. He hated waiting. He wasn't a man who teased, drew out suggestions and hints. But he didn't want to scare her away, either. Already, he could see a sculpture, all sharp angles and claws for hands, lightly charred at the edges. He reached for a lock of hair trailing against her neck and lightly pulled it closer, inspecting it.

"One I'm winning, perhaps," he said, lifting it to his lips.

He'd expected Sakura's sharp inhale. He'd almost expected her to shove him, which she did. But he admitted he hadn't expected her to follow him onto the couch, sitting on his thighs and gripping the front of his t-shirt, staring him down.

Sasori wasn't patient enough to let her surprise him again. His hands shot out and tangled in her hair, pulling her face down to crash her lips against his.

They were just as soft as they looked. But right now, Sasori didn't care about soft, and it seemed Sakura didn't either. Her teeth tugged at his bottom lip, biting and sucking more than kissing. Her grip on his shirt tightened, nails scratching at the old scar on his chest, and he shuddered under her, bending his knee and letting it slide under her skirt.

When he released his hold on her hair, Sakura pulled back almost immediately, touching her mouth with her hand. The other was still bunching Sasori's shirt, but not as tightly.

"Is this more of what you were expecting?" Sasori asked, aware his voice was too breathless to come out as much of a taunt. Still, he sat up, gently coaxing her into a more comfortable position on his lap. His knee under her skirt bumped against damp cotton, and she tried and failed to repress a gasp.

"I don't know," she finally said. "I didn't know what to expect at all. You're—confusing."

Sasori chuckled at that, reaching a slow hand to brush a particularly long strand of hair out of her face. Sakura's eyes fluttered shut. "You're inspiring."

"Oh?" she murmured. He began to press gentle presses of his lips on her eyelids, her cheekbones, once on her mouth, her chin, trailing down her neck.

In between kisses, he whispered, "You're fire. Alive. Burning. Gasping for air. Twisted. Consuming." She whimpered under his touch, and he grinned against a throbbing vein in her neck. His teeth nipped at it, and she jumped, but he was quick to lave his tongue over the bite, soothing it. "I could easily be inspired by you," he breathed against her jawbone, nibbling his way towards her earlobe. Wood and fire for his next piece. One feeding the other, parasitic and beautiful.

Keys jingled from outside the door. Sasori froze against her neck, and Sakura's hand loosened even more on his shirt. The sound of a lock twisting.

"Door," Sasori commanded, nodding in the direction of his room, and by the time Deidara had stomped into the apartment, calling out hello, his bedroom door was already clicked shut.

* * *

Sasori's hands were sliding up the sides of her ribcage the second Sakura had locked his bedroom door. The rayon of her sweater scraped against her skin—with his teeth and tongue on the underside of her jaw, it was hard to realize his caress had more specific intentions. She moaned, both from the understanding and from the way his tongue traced a circle where her jawbone met her ear.

Sasori's thumb brushed against her lower lip, and she let him slip it inside her mouth, pressing against the tip of her tongue.

"Hush," he whispered against the shell of her ear, and the lights flicked on in the same breath. Sakura blinked in the sudden glare, but Sasori withdrew his thumb and stepped away from her, raking painted fingers through his hair thoughtfully. The way he considered her pulled at her heart and sent heat between her legs. Hooded eyes devoured her body, sliding up the length of her skirt and off-center sweater, lingering on her neck where there undoubtedly were blooming pink bruises, settling on her face and boring into her own eyes.

"Take off your sweater."

Sasori's voice was flat, but his burning gaze was consuming. Sakura didn't argue, crossing her arms over the hem and lifting it off in one smooth motion. She'd practiced that, first year of college, and it had always paid off, even if no one was particularly impressed.

She didn't have time to wish she'd worn something lacier than a nude bra. Sasori's stare quieted any concerns, but he gestured to her skirt.

Its zipper was very loud. There were footsteps clomping around in the living room, and Sakura turned around nervously, but Sasori made an impatient sound and she stepped out of the skirt.

Her hands were shaking, goosebumps that had nothing to do with the comfortable temperature of his bedroom rising on her skin. No one had ever treated her like this during—wherever this was specifically leading. Imperious but reverent, hungry but measured. It thrilled her as Sasori stifled a groan against his fist.

He barely knew her.

"Sakura," he said, voice deep and dark like the scariest parts of the ocean, "I'm trying my best, but you should know I'm not a patient guy."

"I do," she laughed, and the sound was so throaty and unlike her that it startled her. She started to walk towards him, reaching behind herself to unhook her bra clasp, but she'd misunderstood him. He moved, fast, like he had in the gym, hands pressing against her back and fingers making quick, practiced work of the bra, lips bruising hers and tongue flicking the roof of her mouth. Sakura heard rather than felt him tear the bra off her and toss it somewhere unknown.

His t-shirt was rough against her nipples. Each shift of fabric scraped against them, making her gasp into his mouth. Vaguely aware Sasori was guiding her to the bed, Sakura reached for the hem, tugging meaningfully. The backs of her knees hit a mattress, and she toppled onto beige cotton sheets, leaving her panting on her back and staring up at him.

Sasori towered over her, unbuckling his belt without keeping his eyes off her. The casual, clear intent in the gesture set Sakura's blood aflame all over again, and she sat up to help relieve him of his shirt.

He moved so _fast._ The belt clanked against something as it, too was carelessly discarded, and once his face reappeared and the shirt lay abandoned on the floor, Sasori wasted no time in pulling her underwear down and pumping two fingers inside her before she could register he'd done so.

Maybe, if she hadn't been so caught off-guard, Sakura would have kept her eyes on him while he stroked inside just this side of roughly. Maybe she would have questioned the intensity with which he studied her every gasp, twitch, arch, curse. Maybe she would have seen the slight smirk twisting his lips and wondered how a man she'd seen naked twice but didn't really know could take such dedicated delight in pleasuring her almost selflessly.

Or maybe she would have moaned more, clutched the sheets harder, continued to pant, "Fuck, Sasori, no, come on, please, just fuck me, I can't, too much, I'm, Sasori, please—"

His thumb flicked across her, and Sakura shattered.

Sasori withdrew his fingers too quickly—again, too fast to notice—and she was dimly aware of a crackle and snap of latex on skin. When he slid his hands around her boneless body and lifted her onto his lap, the fuzz in her head cleared enough to rouse her. Sasori held her flush against his chest and eased himself inside her, groaning incomprehensible things against the dip in her neck, close and gentle like a lover.

But when he moved, there was no gentleness.

His hands clutched her breasts, pinching and rolling while he relentlessly hammered into her. Overstimulated and dizzy, Sakura could only hold on to his back, nails digging into his shoulders, uncertain if she was constantly on the verge of coming or if she hadn't stopped. When she bit his shoulder, he swore and faltered only for a moment before his breath against her neck became more uneven and his pace fast enough to burn.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—"

Sasori collapsed on the bed when he stopped shuddering, taking her with him and pulling out. They lay there, breathless and bruised and sweating, and when Sakura ventured a peek at him, she shivered when she saw he was already looking at her with slit amber eyes.

Loud, howling laughter sounded from beyond the bedroom door. Sakura tried to roll off Sasori, as if the laugher was about to storm in, but he held her wrists even as he sat up. He glared at the door, and the cold fury gleaming in his eyes while he held her in an intimate embrace sent another shiver down Sakura's spine.

"My _maaaaaaaaan_ Sasoriiiii!"

Sakura tensed, embarrassed, although she didn't recognize the voice. Sasori didn't relinquish his hold on her wrists, but he did press a searing kiss against her lips that left her gasping when he let her breathe, a thin line of saliva breaking off between their mouths.

"You can stay if you want," he murmured, but it didn't sound like a recommendation. Sakura nodded, and that satisfied him. She didn't particularly want to meet the laughing roommate, anyway. Sasori offered her his t-shirt, and she took it gratefully while he cleaned up and put on a new pair of boxer briefs.

She'd never shared a bed with anyone before, she realized as he turned off the light and followed her under the covers. The hint of the red tattoo on his wrist showed in the moonlight trailing through the blinds, but then he turned on his side and it was gone. How had she not managed to notice it?

Sakura curled up next to him and pretended everything was normal until she fell asleep. She didn't hear Sasori's thoughts buzzing in his mind, ideas and projects and _inspirations_ colliding against each other, refusing to quiet even as he dreamt, refusing to balance and fall into place like a regular, average, _talentless_ artist would have allowed them to.


	3. Of Dance and Drama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And marrying his march to the sound of instruments,  
> She has the same throne and the same lovers.”  
> —Barton, The Code of Terpsichore

It all fell together quickly, but divine inspiration tended to work that way. Perfectly. Smoothly. Blessed.

Sasori jolted awake around three in the morning, Sakura curled to his side, his hand scrabbling on his desk for the hardback notebook he always kept there for rare moments such as these. He sat up, disentangling himself from Sakura’s sleeping cuddle, and put pen to paper, scratching neat handwriting even in the darkness. Guided by a sacred hand.

“Hm?” Sakura nuzzled his ribs, eyelids flickering almost open. Sasori wrapped his arm around her absently.

“Go back to sleep.”

To his relief, she did. He couldn’t be distracted when inspiration struck. Texting her, however, had brought him nothing but good.

When dawn’s rosy glow filtered through his blinds, he shook her awake. The notebook was safely hidden in the desk drawer, pen shoved back under his mattress. Sakura didn’t look particularly happy, but he had work to do before he had to go to his shift at the art store. Plus, sending her home early, Sasori explained, trailing his fingers down her sternum, meant she wouldn’t run into his roommate Deidara.

He himself would be happy to spare them both _that_. 

So Sakura left, Sasori promised to text her, and although she looked a little doubtful, he hoped she felt his aura radiating creativity and spiritual awakening, feel his energy drawn to hers, and know that he meant it.

Sasori wasn’t about to let his Muse escape him when it had taken her so, so long to arrive.

* * *

 

Sakura thanked the heavens, not for the first time, that Ino wasn’t in STEM. She didn’t need pestering about last night while she was trying to focus on something as simple as preparing a pipette to measure a standard curve.

Ino’s absence didn’t mean she wasn’t having trouble focusing, though.

How long had it been? And how long had it been since she’d been so _into_ sex? She couldn’t remember the last time some dude had made her come before he had—if at all. Sasuke had been very clear that what they had wasn’t a relationship beyond FWB, and she’d accepted that to mean sex would be entertaining, but not to completion for at least one of them. 

But Sasori had made her feel— _worshipped_.

He’d kicked her out at an unholy hour, but he’d said he would text her. He hadn’t so far, but Sakura knew he had work and a life, and while her hope was slim, it wasn’t as skinny as it could’ve been. Sasori had looked at her as she’d said goodbye as though she was something incredible. Maybe she was. Maybe—

Sakura frowned, pausing at the spectrophotometer. Something wasn’t quite right with her numbers. She ignored Temari, her lab partner, and sat down to compare her linear fitting with a scatterplot Temari had grudgingly made when Sakura had insisted. Temari huffed and went off to chat with her friends who were already handing in their reports.

0.8. “Anything below 0.8 is truly awful,” Shizune, their TA, had warned them. Sakura sighed and cast a glare at Temari’s turned back. Okay, it wasn’t Temari’s fault Sakura had added too much protein to the solution, but she should’ve been paying attention, too. 

“Time to start wrapping up, everyone,” Tsunade called, and Sakura flinched. Tsunade raised an eyebrow. “Unless some of us are still taking our sweet time.”

Sakura grit her teeth. Tsunade was one of her favorite professors and her biology minor advisor, but damn if she couldn’t be an unfair hard-ass. Temari hurried back to Sakura’s table to collect their lab reports. Oh, well. “Done is better than good,” was her mantra these days. “C’s get degrees” was Naruto’s.

“Sakura,” Tsunade said as Sakura placed her lab glasses back on the rack. Sakura cast a quick glance around the lab—everyone was grabbing their bags, already headed out.

“Hi.”

“Your grad school application’s coming up, huh?”

Sakura nodded, anxiety pumping from her heart instead of blood. The due date was fast approaching, and she’d barely started the application beyond making an account.

“Do you want me to write you a recommendation later?” Tsunade said, sounding less like an offered favor and more of a question she knew the answer to. Still, Sakura beamed, nodding like a little kid.

“I would really love that—“

“Then get your head in the game for lab,” Tsunade snapped, and while Sakura wilted under her glare, it didn’t add more anxiety. The rebuke came from concern for her, she knew. “I’m happy to write you a letter of rec, but you can’t space out like this.”

“It’s not going to become a habit,” Sakura assured her. “Just had a late night and an early morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Tsunade nodded, and Sakura hoped it was just an understanding nod and not some sort of _deeper_ understanding. “Well, get some sleep tonight. Pay attention next week.”

Sakura hurried out of the lab as fast as she could. The idea of grad school applications cast a gloom over her mood—she had five to apply to, one overseas, which meant the timezone was going to be wonkier. She had to get them uploaded in the next month, and what with midterms and labs and readings and essays and—

Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket. Sakura fumbled for it as she made her way into the biting chilly evening. She nearly choked on her inhale as her cold fingers managed to light the screen up: “New message from ‘Where’s His Cock?’”

She needed to change that.

It said it was an image, but she didn’t feel like struggling to unlock her phone with her messenger bag slung over her shoulder and with the temperature steadily dropping. Sakura hoped against hope it wasn’t a dick pic as she swiped open her dorm and trudged to her room.

It wasn’t. It was a wood carving in progress. An unpolished hand rose out of a block of wood, reaching curving fingers towards the sky, rough outlines of petals dropping onto the outstretched fingertips.

**Critique me.**

* * *

 

The sculpture carved away at his time as surely as his knife did it. Sasori skipped out on life-drawing that week, again, even though he could’ve used the money. Deidara often came home to find him still on the couch and abused coffee table, the lamp pulled away from the armrest and closer to his work as Sasori hummed and pulled little slivers and shavings away from the wooden hand.

Although he doubted he could finish the polishing in time for his experimental class and its critique, Sasori had decided to submit it for the business class, affectionally called “Sell Your Junk” by the MFAs. The culminating project of the class was to organize a showing at the Konoha Gallery, a prestigious place off-campus that loved having Suna artists finding excuses to get the public through its doors. If Sasori had a collection full of pieces as good as _Sakura Falling_ was turning out to be, he’d do well for himself. Good patrons hung out at those galleries.

It also meant he didn’t want to send Sakura pictures of his progress. The first one had been a vain mistake. He wanted to show her what she’d inspired, but as soon as he’d hit send, he felt embarrassed, an unfamiliar emotion. He couldn’t quite name why.

So he ignored his phone buzzing, even when it was important. The only ones he answered were phone calls from work, asking him to pick up an extra shift, and occasionally Deidara, when he’d locked himself out of the building. Occasionally.

By the time Sasori was finished sanding and moving on to polish, it had been a week since he’d last seen Sakura, and his mind and body were starting to crave her. He’d responded to her hesitant texts today, since it was the weekend and he had at least some time to spare, but he couldn’t justify inviting her over when he was _so close_ to finishing the work. The last thing Sasori wanted was for Sakura to come over when it wasn’t even done.

His phone lit up again, and he frowned at it from the coffee table. He thought they’d ended the conversation—he’d asked her what her plans were that night, she’d said she was going to hang out with friends, and he’d told her to enjoy it. What else was there to be said?

**DTF later? :)**

Sasori laughed, once, in between an surprised scoff and a genuine chuckle. But his eyes slid to the sculpture on the table, his brush sitting in the open bottle of polish cutting a cold smell through the living room, and the way the slender fingers beckoned to him with sharp nails and gently upturned petals gave her his answer. He tapped out a reply without thinking and sat back down, tossing the phone aside.

It was almost _done_ …

* * *

 

Sakura tucked her feet under her dress and tried very, very hard to swallow the disappointment and definitely not any mortified tears. From her perch on Hinata’s dorm-issued armchair, she was higher up than any of her friends passing around a wine bottle, which meant they couldn’t see her close her eyes for a moment in embarrassment. 

She thought she’d been fun and flirty. Apparently, she had been the opposite.

**Don’t be juvenile.**

Sakura slid her phone in the single pocket this dress possessed and tried not to groan in frustration. He _was_ older, she reminded herself. Maybe Sasori didn’t appreciate that sort of lingo. But he couldn’t’ve been _that_ much older…Maybe he was stressed. Maybe he didn’t like the crassness. She couldn’t tell.

Not for the first time, she realized she knew very, very little about him.

The smell of cheap fermented grapes assaulted her nose, and the glass lip of the bottle appeared beneath her chin.

“Do you want some, Sakura?” Hinata’s smile was encouraging, and Sakura needed little encouragement to begin with. She took a swig, and Hinata’s smile faltered. “Oh—sure.”

“Hey, glug-glug pass,” Ino complained, but Tenten smacked her.

“You’re one to talk, lush.”

Sakura wiped her mouth and passed the bottle to Ino before she could get angry. Hinata crawled closer to the armchair. 

“Are you okay?” she whispered, doing a truly excellent job of making sure the playfully arguing Ino and Tenten didn’t overhear. 

Sakura’s nod must not have been convincing, because Hinata scooted closer.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked, grey eyes wide and sparkling with earnestness. It broke Sakura’s heart a little, and she forced a smile. It wasn’t as hard as she’d thought—being with concerned friends made getting over embarrassment a little easier.

“I’m fine, Hinata. Just been a long week!” she chirped. “Glad it’s the weekend.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Ino cheered, taking a hearty drink from the bottle. Tenten snatched it back, Hinata snatched it from her, and the bottle made its rounds until it was empty and subsequently replaced by a new bottle.

Sakura had almost forgotten being upset by the time Sasori texted again. Her phone buzzed in her dress pocket, and, with a glare at Ino’s tongue sticking out, she unlocked the screen. Anger flared to life in her gut, maybe a little inflamed by the wine.

**You can come over now.**

“Who the _hell_ does he think he is?” Sakura muttered through her teeth. But as if she had no control over her body, she slid off the armchair and made for the door.

“Whoa, what’s up?” Tenten asked. Sakura flung the door open.

“Just got a score to settle,” Sakura snapped.

“It’s midnight,” Hinata called after her. “Be safe.”

“I know. I’m grabbing a coat and stuff. Thanks for the party, Hinata.” She slipped her sandals back on at the door and headed out of the dorm, stopping at her own for the jacket. After a moment of tipsy, infuriated deliberation, she grabbed a tote bag instead of relying on her dress pocket and threw her phone in as well as her toothbrush and toothpaste.

She hated herself. Sasori had better appreciate this.

* * *

 

“You are _such_ an asshole,” Sakura fumed the second he opened the door at her rapping knock. She stomped into the apartment and Sasori stepped back to allow her entry, but she kept stalking towards him even as they left the hardwood foyer and neared the carpeted living room.

“Take your shoes off, please.”

She complied without losing any of her anger, unfastening the strap and thunking each sandal on the floor. “You just think you can treat me however you want, and I’ll come running back because you said I could.”

Sasori was dimly aware he had offended her somehow, but he couldn’t remember what had been so offensive. He’d been too intoxicated by the idea of her and the sculpture in the same room, the idea of her body reacting to his touch, to pay attention today. But the idea of her fury was equally intoxicating, so he crossed his arms and waited for her to look at him before smirking. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

It was so, so satisfying when she lunged for him, and he dodged her swipe before she even had decided where she wanted to hit him. Sakura caught herself on the couch, fingernails digging into the fabric. That was becoming a habit Sasori didn’t appreciate, and he thought about coming closer to inspect the damage, but she fixed him with such a delightful glare that he decided to stay a reasonable distance away.

His heart was pounding so damn hard. He hoped she heard it.

“I hate that,” she snapped.

“Don’t try to hit me, then,” he shrugged. “It won’t work, and it’s just rude.”

That seemed to take some of the fight out of her, and he regretted saying it. “You’re right. I shouldn’t attack you. But I hate being treated like a plaything, Sasori.”

His eyes widened, and he brushed his hair out of his face. “That’s the opposite of how I view you,” he murmured, not quite sure she’d caught it given the way she inclined her head, listening. “I want to show you something,” he said, louder, instead of repeating it. “Here.”

Sasori walked around the couch, dangerously close to the seething Sakura. He brushed her hand still on the couch, feeling her pulse twitch at his touch. “Look,” he said, tugging. She followed his path, and at his gesture, sat down next to him. It was in sight of her now, planted on the coffee table like a trophy.

Her expression made everything worth it. “Can I pick it up?” she whispered, temper gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

“Yes.”

Sakura’s touch was so light on the sculpture that for a split second, he feared she’d drop it. She turned it in all angles, admiration written all over her face. Sasori’s heart banged so hard in his chest it hurt.

It was beautiful. She didn’t need to say it for him to know. A hand—her hand—rising out of a pile of cherry blossom petals that formed the base, more petals landing gracefully on her wooden index finger and trailing down her palm and wrist. He’d lingered over it, crafting and carving and cutting for hours at a time.

“How long did this take you?”

Sasori wanted to touch her. “A week.” He waited for her to look at him in—surprise? awe? stupor?—before he dared to kiss her, the ghost of a caress on her lips. “Since you left my apartment.”

Sakura had closed her eyes, making it hard to read her expression. He didn’t try to kiss her again. She handed back the sculpture, and Sasori took it from her, fingers brushing hers. He replaced it on the coffee table.

“You know how good it is.”

“I do,” he agreed. “But I wanted to show you.”

Her eyes flashed open. Sasori leaned back against the couch cushion, staring into them, thinking. He was worried in a way he never had been with women—worried that this had been too much, too strong too soon. It had never _been_ a concern for him before. “My texts made you angry,” he guessed. Sakura frowned.

“No.” He started to guess again, but her fingers on his mouth stopped him. “ _You_ made me angry.” Her nails traced patterns on his lips, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and let her scrape the layers of skin away. “You’re such a _fucking_ jerk to me.”

“Probably,” he mumbled against her nails. 

“But you _like_ making me angry.”

“It’s exciting.”

The glare deepened. “So it’s really unrewarding being mad at you.”

His tongue lashed across her fingertips, and she started, pulling her hand away. Sasori grinned shamelessly, shifting so he could skim his hands up her calves, under her dress, running the fabric up her thighs. “Need a different reward?”

The red on her cheeks truly was divine. “You’re such a fuckboy.”

“But you’re the one fucking me, so what does that make you?”

“I didn’t say anything about—“ she started to say, and he paused, just in case. But Sakura, perhaps offended by his hesitation, snarled mid-sentence and lunged for him, slamming her mouth on his. His mind, his blood was _alive_.

“Come on,” he finally said, maybe a little too late when she’d already ripped his shirt from him and was crawling up his body, “bedroom. Come on, Sakura. Inspire me.”

* * *

 

Sakura wouldn’t call Sasori’s apartment “familiar” by this point. She learned where the bathroom was once she’d recovered from Sasori’s tongue and—okay, she’d call it his cock by now—and had to be reminded in the morning when she’d wanted to brush her teeth again. She didn’t know where the plates were before breakfast, and Sasori had shifted her out of his way while she’d stared at the cabinets, the front of his sweatpants brushing against her butt in a way that made her shiver. He had the nicest shoulders in the world, tensing as he reached into a cabinet she’d overlooked, but with just a little dimple that the krav maga muscles hadn’t managed to erase.

But sitting across from him, eating fried eggs that he’d made with toast she’d put in the oven, at a tiny table…it felt almost like it could’ve been familiar in another life. Maybe with another person. But she was glad it was with him, she supposed, as he asked her about the biology minor he’d apparently never realized she was working on.

“I was a chemistry major in undergrad,” he revealed when she asked why the interest. Sakura managed not to drop her fork, settling for gaping instead. “You’ve got a crumb right here,” Sasori said, tapping his cheek. “No, other side.”

“How’d you get into art?”

“I was always ‘into’ art,” he said flatly. Sakura had learned by now what it meant when his tone got like that—he was dead serious, about something or another, but it wasn’t always a bad thing. “I was born an artist. But my grandmother insisted I try and get an undergraduate degree that wouldn’t look so damning on a resume.”

“That sounds like my parents. They wanted me to go full-on bio.”

“My grandmother was an artist, too. She just wanted me to—“

A door knocked open, and a barechested man with long blond hair stumbled out of a room Sakura had forgotten existed. “Morning—“ He caught sight of Sakura and stared. She shrank under his scrutiny. A grin split his features, but he disappeared back into his room.

“Fuck,” Sasori said simply. “I was hoping Deidara would sleep longer.” He sipped his mug of tea and looked at some distant point beyond Sakura’s head.

Deidara returned, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a blue t-shirt, and hair pulled into a high ponytail. “Damn, I thought I heard we had _company_ ,” he crowed.

“Deidara, shut the fuck up. You of all people can’t complain.”

“No no no no,” Deidara insisted, zooming into the kitchen past the table and towards the stove. “I’m not complaining, my man. Not in the slightest. I don’t fucking care that you actually have a girlfriend, yeah.”

Sakura blushed, but Sasori was the one to respond. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said, as matter-of-fact as when he’d said he was a chemistry major. Sakura’s heart plummeted into the abyss of her life. Of course not. Of _course_ not. Now _this_ was familiar, _this_ was how things always were. She kept quiet.

But Sasori’s amber eyes were fiery when he looked away from Deidara and focused his attention on her, gaze boring into her soul. “She’s my muse,” he stated, simple fact again, and before Sakura could wait to remember how to breathe, how to recover from her rise from the abyss on such short notice, how to enjoy the tingle of pleasure, of feeling wanted, he’d thrown his napkin with remarkable accuracy over her shoulder and against Deidara’s head. “No eggs left. Make your own fucking breakfast.”

“Stingy, yeah.” Deidara didn’t even seem that upset. “Sakura, you’re in my chair. Move, yeah?”

She took that as her cue to get dressed and leave. Sasori didn’t kiss her goodbye, but he did at least get up from the kitchen table. “I’ll call,” he promised. Different from a text. Her heart fluttered when he smiled at her, and she hoped her smile did the same thing to him.

She didn’t notice that Deidara had known her name. She didn’t notice that, for all his teasing, he hadn’t commented on Sasori’s declaration. She didn’t know that he knew it all already.


	4. Of Laughter and Festivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thalia would have rejoiced and praised his accents,  
> and in wanton mood have disordered his comely locks with a rosy garland.”  
> Statius, Silvae ll.114

Sakura couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed school so much. She’d always been a good student, but she wouldn’t have said she found learning _fun_ , exactly, or staying in class late preferable to hanging out with her friends.

_“Beautiful,” Sasori mumbled against her neck, spearing her on his lap, tongue dipping into her collarbones to taste her sweat._

Not that she saw her friends too frequently these days. Naruto and Hinata were always off on their own, usually at the ramen truck or holding each other in the student union. Ino’s senior portfolio was getting more demanding as midterms flew by, and she was always in some studio or another trying to please her advisor with more drafts. Tenten didn’t hang out with them as much anymore and hadn’t since junior year, only showing up to drink.

 _Sakura writhed against him, trying to reach for him and dig her nails into his skin, but with every thrust of his fingers, he leaned back just a little bit more, a cruel smile cut into his face_.

It didn’t matter. They were all going to graduate on time. Maybe Sakura wasn’t going to be valedictorian, but her grades were good enough for grad school, most likely. It didn’t matter that her attention wavered in class, that she spaced out when with her friends, that she spent fewer cell phone minutes calling her parents than they would’ve liked.

_“Inspiring,” Sasori breathed, pulling his mouth away from her twitching thighs and watching her try to remember how to breathe with stunned, glowing amber eyes._

It didn’t matter that four of the grad school application deadlines had passed. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.

* * *

 

Sasori hummed to himself, drying his brushes on a paper towel and getting ready to pack up. He had a talent for feeling when someone was staring at him, but he’d learned that, at least with Konan, it was better to pretend he was oblivious. She’d talk to him when she was ready. Infuriating, but better than dealing with Konan’s ire.

“Anko’s been wondering if you’re coming back to do any modeling,” she finally said, propping her chin up on her hand. Sasori’s eyes flicked over to her as he threw the case into his bag. He shrugged.

“Probably not for her class. I picked up more shifts at the store.”

“Did something happen?” 

Sasori stood up and tossed a backpack strap over one shoulder. Konan didn’t really care, he reminded himself. She was empathetic, but only to a point; she wanted to know what she didn’t understand, not because she actually was concerned for anything going on in his life. He didn’t envy her husband. “I’m fucking one of the undergrads. It’d be inappropriate to go back.”

At least he’d been successful—her mouth opened, just the tiniest bit, but he knew her well enough to recognize she’d been startled. He tried not to grin.

“That seems unwise.”

“Maybe for her,” he agreed, and he got no small measure of glee in seeing Konan frown disapprovingly. “Later, Konan.”

His humming continued as he walked the long way to the gym. Kisame raised an eyebrow as he pushed open the men’s locker room door.

“Are you _inspired_ again today?” he asked, stressing the word meaningfully. A swim cap snapped onto his bald skull, and Sasori tried not to wince. He tried not to pay attention to other men in the locker room, but damn, the swimmers always looked so uncomfortable.

“I’m in a good mood,” Sasori rolled his eyes, unzipping his down coat. The good weather was coming to an end faster than the semester was. “Inspiration’s more fickle than that.”

“And is your girlfriend ‘fickle’ too?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my muse.” But he smiled anyway at the thought, shucking aside his shirt. He’d learned well from previous lovers, and Sakura seemed to appreciate the effort, but he was constantly discovering new things about her body to surprise them both. Fickle wasn’t the word at all.

“Whatever. Stop singing.”

When he finally finished stretching and made it to the punching bag, Sasori’s blood was already racing, ready to go. 

_Jab cross jab knee_

The chains squealed. Sasori tried to do what his first krav maga teacher had taught, to separate mind from body, to believe rather than pretend the bag under his hands didn’t exist or feel or move. 

_Jab cross jab cut_

His portfolio was full of life now, each piece unique. No one else in the cohort had a collection quite like it. They were all second-years now, and had shown at galleries across the city since last year, but nothing so comprehensive as what Sasori had prepared. Getting ready for the Konoha Gallery showing had been easier than expected. 

_Jab cross jab kick_

Sasori would make sure to show Sakura his appreciation tonight.

* * *

 

Her phone buzzed. Sakura was only too ready to drop her readings on _Edo Gardens as Constructed Space_ and nearly ripped the syllabus in her eagerness to check the text. New message from Sasori. As she’d hoped.

**Are you free right now?**

Sakura was about to type out a cheerful response when the heater turned on with a gentle rumble, blowing her syllabus closer to her phone. With a reluctant sigh, she turned back to her tablet, where photos of palatial gardens and tiny text glowed on the screen. She tapped a reply without looking at her phone, that she was still working on homework. Her phone buzzed again.

**I could keep you company.**

Sakura couldn’t help laughing into her hand. As if that was likely, just the two of them sitting quietly in her room, enjoying each other’s company in silence while she did her work and he sketched. Domestic and peaceful, simple blissful silence.

The phone sat in her hand, waiting.

She wanted that _badly_. 

The idea of Sasori coming to her room just to hang, just because he liked being with her…It was too painful of a fantasy to test, but what if, what if? Her fingers were moving across the screen before she could stop them, sharing her location.

**Text me when you’re outside.**

Okay. So it was a test. She was testing him. It was early evening and she was starting to get tired, that was her excuse. If he just wanted to fuck, they’d fuck, and it’d be awesome and fun. If he played into her daydream, then…

Her phone buzzed. Sakura grabbed her ID and ran downstairs, bare feet slapping on the cement.

Sasori looked up from his phone when she opened the door. He had a large sketchpad tucked under his arm and a backpack slung over the opposite shoulder. He smiled when he saw her, slow and lazy, a few flurries caught in his hair and in the neck of his winter coat.

“That was fast,” Sakura said, her voice a little choked. 

He looked puzzled. “It took me fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah,” she replied, meaningless, useless. Had she done any more work in that time? “Come on in.”

He looked around her room when she hung his coat on the door, taking in the photos of friends on corkboard and throw pillows on her bed. Did it look like an adult’s room? Did it look like a twenty-two-year-old’s room? 

“You can sit on the bed,” she told him, and he did, not waiting to be asked twice. Sakura fidgeted with her hair, pulling the shorter strands by her ears. Sasori unfolded his sketchpad, opening it to a new page and rifling around in his bag for a pencil. She gaped, and his eyes shot to her face.

“Didn’t you say you had homework to do?”

Sakura mumbled something and scurried back to her desk. It was hard to focus on highlighting and annotating while he was there, _Sasori was there_ , sitting on her bed totally innocently, sketching precise and careful strokes on his sketchpad. But she managed to get through the first reading, then the second, while the heater kicked up again and the glow of her lamp grew brighter in the dark. 

Finally, she sighed and clicked off her tablet. Sasori made a small, questioning noise from where he was sitting, legs folded over each other and balancing the sketchpad.

“I’m done,” she said, scooting the chair back. She heard him put the pencils away while she moved to draw the curtains. “How about you?”

But she’d hardly pulled the shades closed before he was on her, mouth hot and wet on the spot where her neck met her shoulder. She whimpered before she could reign herself in, and he nibbled a path up to her ear while his hands slid over her stomach.

“Sasori,” she whispered, and he used his grip on her shirt to twist her around to face him. He was breathing hard already, eyes glinting like the edges of jewels in her shitty dorm-issue lamplight, and the sight of him reacting to her was nearly enough to distract her from what she wanted to say. Almost.

“Sasori, I wanted—“ Sasori was unbuttoning her shirt with quick, deft fingers. His kiss devoured her, silenced her, and she leaned into it without thinking, biting at his bottom lip the way she knew he liked. The front clasp of her bra snapped open, but Sasori’s fingers were already sliding inside, a careless finger brushing against her nipple and making her moan into his mouth.

“Sasori, wait,” she managed to gasp as he pinched. The effect was instantaneous. He waited, pulling back from her face with an impassive and familiar expression, fingertips hovering above her nipple. His other hand lingered above the rest of her shirt buttons. Sasori would wait. He wouldn’t want to, but he would. 

Sakura reached for his face, stroking the sides with her thumbs. His eyelashes brushed against her cheekbones when she kissed him, slow and careful. “I want to do something for you,” she whispered, and when she pulled him tight against her body, she felt his cock twitch in his jeans. She laved her tongue along his neck, and his groan was so sweet that she shrugged off her shirt and bra to at least give him something else he liked.

Sasori let her push up his shirt, let her unzip his jeans and pull him out and stroke, but when she started walking him backwards and sitting him on her bed, he hesitated. “Sakura, what do you want?” he asked, voice low and thick with desire.

“I want you to feel good,” she said with a grin, easing onto her knees and yanking the rest of his jeans and boxer briefs off in the same fluid motion. It was a good thing he’d shown her his tests, because she didn’t have any condoms handy. Sasori watched her with wide honey eyes, a hitch in his breathing and a shudder in his spine as she licked a slow stripe up his cock.

She teased him for as long as she dared, blowing and licking just a little, though Sakura knew Sasori’s impatience wasn’t limited just to slow conversations. But when she finally took him into her mouth, thumb clenched in her fist to make it easier, she still hadn’t anticipated just how much she’d wound him up. Sasori’s painted nails dug into her scalp immediately, pushing her closer. 

“ _Fuck_ , Sakura.”

She pulled back quickly, only having enough time to suck in a mouthful of air before his hands were back on her head. The prick of his nails on her sensitive skin, the pull of his fingers in her hair, the wordless moaning spilling from his lips, were enough to make her go as long without air as she dared. It wasn’t like she had much choice; every time she needed to breathe, she learned she only had a handful of seconds before Sasori was tugging her mouth back.

It was the first time Sakura had seen him so undone. When she was able, she’d look up to see his head tossed back, hair a mess against her throw pillows, chest heaving, mouth muttering filthy curses with every pull of her lips or cup of her hand or slide of her tongue against him. But it was difficult observing the effects of her oral skills, because when she paused too long, a scratch of nails against her scalp brought her back to her task.

When he came, it was sudden, and hard, and so, so, so worth it.

Sasori cried out her name like she was all that existed in his vocabulary, probably pissing off or amusing her hall neighbors. She didn’t care. His grip in her hair tightened, painfully so, then relaxed, holding her head gently while he remembered that he knew how to curse, too. 

“Sakura, fuck, fucking hell, Sakura, oh hell, Sakura, shit, fuck—“

Sakura swallowed, gave one final pull, and carefully sat back. He nearly sobbed when she removed her mouth, a delicious little vulnerable sound, and she crawled onto the bed to join him. Sasori barely seemed to know she was there. She stroked a line down his sweat-dotted chest and kissed it, watching the skin there jump. 

After a few more seconds, his breathing had returned mostly to normal. He sat up, and Sakura let him, a pleased grin on her face as she saw his expression for the first time since getting on her knees.

His eyes were like ice. His mouth was a hard line, bitten and a little bloody. The grin slipped from her face as quickly as if he’d slapped it away.

“Never do that again,” he said to her, voice as smooth as the flat of a knife. Sakura shrank back, but he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear with deceptive gentleness despite his tone. “I can’t see your face like that.”

* * *

 

He’d chipped his polish, Sasori noticed while Itachi smoked in silence next to him. Deidara was the one who’d gotten him into the look, although Sasori would never admit it to his face. But he’d mainly started doing it because Deidara let his chip and flake and if someone in the apartment was going to have painted nails, they might as well be properly painted. Now he was as messy as Deidara. He shook his head, disgusted.

The cigarette appeared in his vision. Sasori looked askance at Itachi, who’d passed it to him without much emotion.

“Those things kill you,” Sasori intoned.

“Feels good to die,” Itachi replied. When Sasori didn’t accept the offer, Itachi shrugged and brought it back to his lips for a drag. “You know in the eighteenth century, orgasms were called ‘the little deaths.’ From Italian.”

Sasori snorted, but Itachi didn’t laugh. “Is this your pack of orgasms, Itachi? One puff a little closer to death’s door?”

He shrugged again. “Just sharing a fun fact. You’re just like my brother.”

“I wasn’t in the humanities as a kid. Don’t think I ever developed an appreciation for the nuances of language.”

“Guess it’s good Sasuke’s not going to law school, then. He didn’t appreciate them, either.”

It wasn’t particularly good weather to hang out on Itachi’s porch. Finals were in two weeks, the Konoha Gallery was in one, and the snow was a reminder of winter break approaching. But here they were, while some other grad students in their cohort and beyond laughed and drank and socialized inside. 

Sasori wondered what would happen to his inspiration over break. Would Sakura stay, or did she have plans for travel? It occurred to him that he hadn’t though to ask her.

“How’s your Muse?” Itachi asked, as if sensing Sasori’s train of thought. “Speaking of a little death.”

“She’s incredible.” Out of everyone in the cohort, Itachi was the only one who didn’t roll his eyes at this type of language. But it was hard to describe her in any other way. “I keep creating. I’m going to have to narrow down what I’m presenting at Konoha.”

“You should be careful.”

Sasori slowly turned to face Itachi, unsure if he should have a glare prepared, but Itachi simply blew a stream of smoke out over the railing and stubbed out the butt of the cigarette. He stared out at the snow, blinking owlishly under his thick glasses.

“Careful of what?” Sasori asked impatiently when Itachi didn’t seem to be more forthcoming than this.

“I don’t know. Select carefully, I suppose. There will be many important people at the showing.”

It struck him, as they re-entered the party, that Itachi might not have been entirely truthful as to what he’d meant. But Sasori, carefully and mentally evaluating the worth of his wooden sculptures to his pottery to his jade jewelry to his pressed flower prints, decided that it was an acceptable enough warning on its own.

* * *

 

Sakura hadn’t been entirely certain if she’d been really invited to the Konoha Gallery showing. Sasori had been casual about it, offering to procure a formal invitation for her if she’d’ve been interested in attending. But although he’d helped her pick out a dress, and although she’d been curious to see the culmination of his semester-long projects that he’d been slaving away on during the hours he refused to text or call, she eventually told him to have fun, that she’d only be in the way of the people with money.

Admittedly, the way his eyes lit up at the thought of prestige made her feel a little bad. She’d been hoping to see him disappointed, to hear him insist that she attend. But Sakura should have known better, because one of them many, many things Sasori hated was making her do something she didn’t want.

She’d asked him to send her pics of him in a suit, though. She’d asked for that much. And if he wasn’t too drained by afterparties and handshaking and sharing his contact info, maybe he would invite her over so she could yank the tie from him and wrinkle his blazer and bite little marks into his neck that no white collar could hide. Maybe.

So while she waited, she’d decided to fill out the last graduate application, the only one that she hadn’t let slide. Sakura had told her parents when they’d asked that the others were on a rolling admission, and she’d found out quickly that she hadn’t gotten accepted. It was better than telling them she hadn’t applied at all. But she also didn’t relish the thought of owning up to it later, or of knowing that she hadn’t even tried. 

But unfortunately, all the national deadlines had passed. Sakura would have to wait until next year to apply to them again. Which only left the overseas university, the program specializing in Edo-era art, to apply to. 

And its application was a _bitch_.

Ino had actually joined her today in the library group study section, a place she ordinarily refused to step foot in. They worked side by side, tapping away at their tablets in relative silence. When Sakura had run into Ino on the way here, she’d been surprised by Ino’s shyness in asking if she could join her. It had been at least a week since they’d properly hung out.

“So you’re not hanging out with your boyfriend today?” Ino asked casually after Sakura had sighed one too many times over the word processor.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Sakura said automatically, managing to shut herself up before she said anything else. No one would understand. “He’s presenting at the Konoha Gallery today.”

“Fancy.”

“Yeah. What are you working on?”

Ino looked like she wanted to pursue the topic, but Sakura pretended not to notice her staring, continuing to type up the answer to another stupid essay prompt. 

“The write-up for my portfolio review,” Ino admitted after another moment had passed and Sakura remained focused on her task. “It’s a huge pain.They want me to analyze my own art, as if it doesn’t speak for itself.”

“But I mean, it doesn’t, right?” Sakura said, backspacing a series of typos. “Art can be interpreted in so many different ways by the viewer. That’s why art history’s a thing at all, because the artist isn’t always there to correct people. Make your art clear enough to allow for interpretation, sure, but you’re also the one that can control just how narrow the range is.”

“Did your boyfriend teach you that?”

Something bitter was in Ino’s tone, and it kept Sakura from repeating her earlier statement. She brought her head up to read Ino’s expression and jolted when she saw her friend was looking at her not with so much frustration as concern.

“Yeah, I guess,” she said when Ino clearly expected an answer. Ino sighed and clicked off her tablet screen.

“You don’t even see what’s happening, do you?”

“What, Ino?” Anger was scratching at the edge of her stomach, but she kept her voice calm. 

Who the _fuck_ did Ino think she was?

Sakura could handle herself.

“Naruto’s not doing great.”

Just like that, the anger fizzled away. “What?”

“Hello?” Ino dramatically waved her hand in front of Sakura’s face. She slapped it away, lightly. “You really haven’t noticed how Hinata’s never around? How _Naruto_ is never around? Sasuke dropping out’s ruined him, Forehead. He’s sleeping like, all the time. Hinata’s worried he won’t even graduate.”

“He’s gonna graduate,” Sakura whispered, mouth dry. “C’s get degrees.”

“Cutting class and missing assignments doesn’t land you a C, Sakura.” Now pity was written all over Ino’s face, but Sakura couldn’t tell who the pity was supposed to be for. “Looks like the partners in crime might have more in common than they thought.”

Sakura did hit her then, anger sparking back to life. Ino flinched, jerking her arm back too late. Sakura stared at her hand, the hand that had connected with Ino’s skin. She thought she’d given Ino plenty of time to dodge.

“I’m just saying,” Ino muttered, rubbing a pink spot on her wrist. “It’s not just me who sees the resemblance. I’m gonna go, Sakura.” She threw her tablet back in her tote and was headed out of the group study section before Sakura could even think to apologize.

Her phone buzzed.

Sakura waited for Ino’s blond ponytail to disappear from sight before she reached into her coat pocket. 

Sasori looked handsome in a suit. 

Someone had known how to take a picture, though with the other members of his cohort all presenting, it was only to be expected that someone there would know photography. They’d caught him looking over his shoulder, half-smiling at the camera while an eager patron pointed to _Sakura Falling_ with gloved fingers. A coil jar, a thick book open to a page of pressed flowers, tiers of jade beads on silver chain, and the outlines of sketches lay on the same table, all gaped at by a throng of gallery viewers.

But Sasori took center stage of the shot, throwing them all in his shadow while he glanced at the picture-taker. His smile was sharp and striking, his hair smooth and brushed to the side, his expression open and engaging. He’d started to put his hand in his pocket, but the movement was frozen in time, his forearm tilted to show off half of a red scorpion tattoo on the inside of his wrist.

Underneath the image, a text.

**Thinking of you.**

Sakura stared at the picture, opening it and saving it, staring some more, then reading and rereading the text. A smile fluttered to her lips, chest warm with remnants of anger and stirrings of affection. After one last look at the picture, she tucked the phone back into the coat pocket and set to work on the next graduate application question.

_In 800 words or less, write a thoughtful essay on the memory of your greatest regret._


	5. Of Summits and Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "O, write my name among that minstrel choir,
> 
> And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!"
> 
> Horace, Odes, Book 1 ll.35-36

 

Sasori's fingers trembled as he said his goodbyes at the gallery. He'd shaken so many hands and received so many business cards that his skin felt dirty. A stark contrast to his mind and spirit, which felt pure.

"You need help with that?" Itachi nodded at the box in Sasori's hands, containing all his portfolio pieces. _His life_. "You look a little unsteady." He crushed the cigarette he was smoking under his shiny heel and reached, but Sasori shook his head.

"Deidara's driving me."

Itachi raised his eyebrows. "Deidara left with—someone else." The way he said it made it very clear who the someone else was—the patron who'd been cooing over his steel wired bird display, commenting on how _cute_ they were, did you make these with your own _hands_. It was certainly one way to get attention.

"Shit."

Itachi shrugged and reached again, and this time Sasori let him. "Sasuke's here. I'm sure there's room in the trunk for your things. We can drive you home."

Sure enough, a sleek black sedan was parked in front of Konoha Gallery when they pushed open the doors. Sasori helped Itachi load his box into the trunk, where another box of Itachi's photos was already sitting.

He'd never met Itachi's little brother before. He looked exactly like Itachi, practically a carbon copy, minus the glasses and cigarette smoke. The guy barely glanced at Sasori as he slid into the back seat.

"Who's this?"

"Sasori, what's your address? Sasuke, we're driving him home."

Sasori gave the information, Sasuke plugged it into his phone, and they went off without any other curious questions besides, "So how was it?"

Sasori didn't figure the question was aimed at him and let Itachi take initiative. He leaned back in the cushy car seat and let himself breathe. Business cards cut into the silk of his pockets, reminding him of all the connections he made, of all the people he'd impressed, the people who _mattered_. It had taken two years with still one more year to go, but now he could see he was at the right place. He had done the right thing. Sasori didn't consider himself sentimental, but surely this was what his grandmother would have wanted for him. She would have approved, he knew it. More than approved—

His phone was ringing. He answered without looking at the caller info. It could only be one person.

"I'm on my way back."

"Hey, good, it's my man Sasori!" Sasori recoiled from the phone. Judging by Sasuke's amused expression in the rearview mirror, he must have made quite the face. "Hey, sorry I bailed, yeah? Just had to, you know, take care of some shit. You're on your way?"

"Yes. Itachi gave me a ride."

"Hope you crash!" Deidara laughed, this side of maniacal. A petulant voice called his name somewhere in the distance. "Okay, not you, but I—you know what I mean, yeah. I'm not at the apartment, so you can bring your girlfriend—"

"She's not my—"

"Excuse the fuck out of me, you can bring your _muse_ back and fuck the cherry blossoms out of each other. Glad you got a ride home, yeah. I gotta go. Sorry."

Deidara hung up, thankfully. Sasori's eye twitched. Itachi, to his credit, didn't laugh, but he was covering his mouth as though he was in deep thought about whatever Deidara's loud voice had said.

Sasuke looked pinched. Sasori couldn't blame him.

"It's the next left," Sasori piped up when it seemed like Sasuke was going to miss the turn. Sasuke pulled a hard left and screeched down the street.

"So you know Sakura?" Sasuke's voice was casual, even for a monotone. Sasori managed to keep his eyebrows at a reasonable level on his forehead.

 _Fuck the cherry blossoms out of each other_.

"She's my muse."

"Great." Sasuke practically spat it out, losing his cool for a split second before Itachi shifted and glanced at him. He wiped his face clear of emotion fast enough to do a sociopath proud.

"Oh?" Now it was his turn to fight a smile, something hard and a little sadistic.

"Yeah, she's great. We used to be friends." The phone beeped an alert for arriving at their destination. "Haven't talked to her in a while."

"You know your friends'd like to see you," Itachi said quietly as Sasori got out of the parked car. Sasuke was vehemently shaking his head, fingers white around the steering wheel. Sasori waved.

"Thanks for the ride. Trunk?"

The trunk popped open. Sasori got his box and managed to strongarm his way to his apartment before he finally put it down long enough to get his keys out.

He didn't know what to do with the information provided to him. He didn't think it was any of his business, frankly; it would probably be best not to breathe a word of it to Sakura.

But it was amusing as all hell. Sasori was willing to bet he'd just met one of his muse's former lovers in a piss-off and had won.

* * *

Sakura had never had anyone braid her hair before, mostly because she'd never let anyone do it. As a kid, she'd thrown tantrums when her mother had approached her with a brush and child-safe detangling spray; no braiding had therefore ever been attempted.

But, fresh out of a shared shower, lying on Sasori's clean sheets sleepy and sated, his nimble fingers gently combing knots out of her conditioned hair and manipulating them into elaborate coiffures…It was nice. There was no other word for it. Nice.

Until he snapped a photo of the design with his phone.

"Hey!" Sakura threw his white sheets over her body, hiding, but he threw them back down, fingers skimming her sides.

"It's good contrast against your skin. You have nice hair."

Sakura ignored the compliment. "I'm not wearing anything, Sasori. Don't take pictures."

She could feel his disapproval rolling off him in waves, but he put the phone down, reaching across her to deposit it on his desk. A single fat water droplet dripped off his elbow into her mouth and she sputtered. Sasori promptly lost it, cozying up to her from behind and laughing into her braided hair.

For a few seconds of his laughter, Sakura closed her eyes and let herself enjoy it. He so rarely laughed. His smiles were things of pure sex to her, but he smiled freely and frequently. Laughter had to be startled out of him. The only other time she could remember hearing him laugh was when she'd run into Deidara on her way out one morning, and she'd been so embarrassed by his immediate, sadistic delight that she'd thrown her shoe at him, clocked him on the forehead, almost knocked him out, and then had made a quick escape. She heard Sasori's laughter following her as she hobbled out of the building. He'd dropped the shoe out of his bedroom window for her.

Sakura forced herself to open her eyes and face the facts. These were couple things. And if Sasori had made one thing clear, it was that they were not a couple.

His laughter died behind her, but he hummed a little, pressing a lazy kiss against the nape of her neck. "Let's sleep." He started to get up, but one look at Sakura's face stopped him. Sakura tried to smile and nod, but the waves of disapproval returned. "I've upset you," he assumed, rummaging in the dresser drawer already open close to the bed.

"It wasn't you."

"It was something else." Sasori slipped into a pair of sweatpants, and, feeling self-conscious in her nudity, Sakura reached for the tote bag that she'd asked to leave in his room for late nights.

"Sort of." She could _feel_ his impatience like it was a physical sensation. His eyes searched her as she wiggled into a pair of sweatpants of her own, but it wasn't a sensual look. But she made him wait while she poked her head through a dog-printed t-shirt.

"Sakura," Sasori said, a warning note clear in his tone. She reached for the light switch, but he covered it with his own hand. Faster. As always. "I don't want to play this game."

"Why can't I call you my boyfriend?"

The words were wrenched from her throat like he'd pried them free himself. She couldn't stop, and he didn't interrupt.

"You're not ghosting me. You like hanging out with me, just chilling out. I think you do, anyway. And we have sex, a lot, and you're really great in bed. Like, really great. But I like you a lot. And my friends are being _assholes_ about it. Why can't I just say you're my boyfriend?" It was a torrent of words. Sakura's lungs and face burned when she was done, hands bunched in fists, embarrassed eyes on his shocked ones.

Sasori didn't reach for her. He had a good instinct, because—

"You can call me your boyfriend."

All the air in the world couldn't rush to her lungs fast enough. "What?" she gasped, like some sort of soap opera actress. But Sasori only tilted his head and observed her, slowly dropping his hand from the light switch.

"You can call me your boyfriend, I said. I can be your boyfriend. Twenty-six might not make me a boy, but—"

"No, no," Sakura hurried to assure him. Her heart bounced in her chest. She tried not to seem so excited and relieved and was certain she was failing. "It's fine, I know what you meant."

"But you're not my girlfriend. You can't be."

Her heart didn't know what to do. Did it stop? Did it hurt? Too many emotions had burned through her in too short a time. Sasori took advantage of her confusion to reach for her, and she let him hold her. He tucked her head under his chin and wrapped his arms around her back.

She couldn't cry. He wasn't wearing a shirt. He'd feel her tears.

"You're my muse, Sakura. You can't be anything else."

His voice was reverent as he spoke, full of wonder, and he squeezed her tighter, as if he couldn't believe she was letting him hold her. Sakura couldn't, either. She pressed her nose against his chest and took a deep, shuddering breath. Sasori kissed the top of her head, right in the center of her elaborate braid, and she felt his touch in her core.

"Let's go to bed."

And she let him pull her back to the clean white sheets, let him press kisses against her eyelids, let him reassure her of his love in ways only religious ecstasy could convey.

* * *

Sakura's confession haunted Sasori during finals, although he was loathe to admit it. He didn't mind being someone's boyfriend. He didn't mind being _Sakura's_ boyfriend. It had been a very long time since anyone had wanted him to be a boyfriend, and the warmth in his chest when he'd seen his muse almost weep for want of him was a long time coming.

But she was softening. She was losing her fire. It didn't ruin his inspiration, of course. He threw clay on his grandmother's wheel and it came alive in his hands, breathing like Sakura and spinning into something almost as beautiful. On a purely human level, however, he missed it.

Sasori didn't _want_ to be purely human. But there it was. He missed her anger, he missed her sudden bouts of violence, he missed her shame at catching her temper. She said she wanted him to be his boyfriend. She said that. She _said_ that.

But did she mean it?

Sasori could feel her pulling away from him, bit by bit. He didn't stop to question if maybe he was being paranoid, or self-conscious, or afraid, or _wrong_. He knew. She hadn't wanted him to take a picture of the pattern he'd woven into her hair, feigning modesty at being nude, but really what she was saying was that she didn't want to be immortalized.

He'd never taken a picture of her before. She'd asked for one of him, and he'd complied without thinking. Did that mean she'd imprisoned him in a way that she didn't want to be imprisoned? Had that been her intention? Maybe she viewed photos differently from painting or sculpture or jewelry, had a different mindset than he did on what immortality truly was. He'd never considered that before, that she would be so different from him.

"You're overthinking things," Itachi told him at the ramen truck, but he didn't seem like he was paying attention to Sasori's concerns. He kept looking at a sulking blond kid and his girlfriend like he wanted to go over to them. Sasori snapped his fingers, and Itachi frowned. "Don't snap at me."

"This is serious. You're a photographer. Am I crazy?"

"Obviously. You're an artist. You have to be crazy."

"You know what I mean," Sasori said, clenching and unclenching his hands into clawed fists around his to-go bag so he didn't flip out.

Itachi took his plastic ramen bowl from the truck cook and thanked her. They made their way to the fountain and sat on the edge. Itachi still hadn't elaborated. It gave Sasori his answer.

"I think," Sasori said instead, in between slurps of ramen noodle, "I need to do something different. Change something."

"Probably." For the first time in the conversation, Itachi seemed to be agreeing with him. Sasori relaxed his shoulders and ate his ramen in peace, his friend's approval validating his decision.

He needed to make her understand. He needed to make her afraid. And he knew exactly how to do it.

* * *

Finals were always the worst time of year, although after seven semesters, Sakura would have thought she'd expect it by now. It was made even worse this time by the fact that she was studying completely alone. Ino hadn't texted her, and Sakura wasn't going to be the first to text back. Hinata was spending all her time with Naruto, trying to coax him into emailing his professors and actually studying, so Sakura didn't want to interfere. Everyone else was a casual acquaintance, and while she was sure organizing a group study session wouldn't go unappreciated, she couldn't move herself to be around large groups of people.

That meant no library. She spent reading period in her room, and cabin fever was getting to be a real struggle. It was almost a relief when her first scheduled exam arrived, forcing her out of the dorm.

This final was for Kakashi, her major advisor and most relaxed professor. It was a weird class, focusing on pseudo-pornographic sculptures and art, but it helped her finish her last specialization requirement for her degree. She only hoped it wasn't too damning on her transcript for the graduate application, which she'd finally managed to submit an hour before its deadline. She hadn't told Sasori she'd even applied.

But why did she even need to tell Sasori? He hadn't texted her all during reading period, Sakura reminded herself bitterly, filling out the multiple choice with rapid bubble-filling. He said he was happy to be her boyfriend, and she thought she believed him. But wasn't it only halfway? How could he be her boyfriend who didn't text or call when she wasn't his girlfriend—who admittedly also didn't text or call.

But it wasn't _fair_.

Sakura handed in the final a half hour early. Kakashi nodded at her from behind his book when she wished him a good break in a hushed whisper. Sakura was two paces outside the art building, clomping her boots in the slushy snow, when her hand reached into her pocket on its own and pulled out her phone.

Not for the first time, Sakura remembered she hated herself.

He picked up on the second ring. "I'm glad to hear from you."

How could he do that? How could Sasori's voice be so smooth, soothing and enticing all in one sentence? "I finished my first final," she told him.

"Good. That's one of three out of the way."

"Do you want to come over and work with me?"

Sasori hummed thoughtfully. She heard the chair by his pottery wheel creak in the background. "You should focus on your studies, Sakura. I'll distract you." That promise in his voice, dark and alluring, made her want to argue that studies were worthless.

But maybe that was what he wanted her to do?

"Okay." She hesitated again, trying to sense if he was disappointed. It was so hard when she couldn't see his face. "After I finish up tomorrow, do you want to hang out? Before I leave for break?"

It was a subject she'd been reluctant to bring up. What would happen when she went home? Would they even talk? Would she come back and he'd be uninspired, or out of a use for her? Would he pretend nothing had happened?"

"Of course."

It was all she'd get. Sakura hung up and went home, back to studying and waiting for finals to be over.

* * *

Sakura's dorm room was larger and better heated than the others, so she told him; it was one of the perks of senior privilege. Sasori appreciated both these qualities, especially today. The snow had stopped yesterday, but it was absolutely freezing, and stripping off his coat and muddy boots and depositing them in the corner ensured that he wouldn't accidentally step in melting snow in his socks.

It was Sasori's first time seeing Sakura in a week, and his hands itched to create, either a memory or a piece of art. But first, he had a job to do.

"I can't wait to go home," Sakura sighed, standing by the window and brushing her hair out of her headband. "I need to get off this campus just for a little while."

"You don't live far, right?" Sasori asked, half-genuinely. He didn't have a car and she'd be with her parents, but hopefully he didn't have to worry about timezones for what he had in mind.

"Yeah. Just a few stops away on the train. I didn't go far away from home or my high school friends," she told him sheepishly. She closed the shades. Sasori leaned against her throw pillows and began spinning a bracelet on his wrist, trying to hide a grin. She couldn't have given him an easier opportunity.

He made his voice as deceptively casual and curious as he could manage, lilting his voice inquisitively. "Are you going to see Sasuke while you're home?" He looked at her while he asked, refusing to miss the way her face changed.

It was _beautiful_. Polite, listening jade eyes widened, just a little. Then, plush pink lips slightly pursed opened, twisted. Her cheeks, pale from the winter, darkened, red blooming across them and creeping towards her nose. A glare, fiery and embarrassed, pink brows slamming together in a frown. And just like that, it was gone, mostly. She was struggling to keep her face clear of emotion, but the slight details, like the way she wasn't quite looking at him, made her true feelings clear.

He wished he could take a picture. For reference. And he couldn't keep the grin off his face anymore, so he spun the bracelet even faster.

"Do you know Sasuke?" Her voice was positively icy. So much for casualness. "Don't smile at me. I just asked you a question."

"I'm answering," he mocked, refusing to drop the smile. Spin, spin. "Not really. Only met him once."

Sakura's hands were on her hips as she leaned forward, fury in the gesture. Sasori's cock twitched, as if this was all foreplay instead of something their relationship _needed_. "And what, you talked about me? Asked him his plans for the end of the year?"

Sasori shrugged and leaned forward, matching her pose. Spin, spin, spin. He knew his smile was cruel, couldn't keep it off his face. "He drove me home from Konoha. Guess you should've come to the gallery if—"

"Is _that_ what this's about?" Sakura shouted, dropping her hands and storming over to him. Sasori let her grab him, hands on his wrists, stopping his spinning. "Fucking stop. If you were upset about me not coming to your show, you could just say so."

"I'm not upset," Sasori blinked. He made a half-hearted attempt to tug his wrists free, but her grip only tightened. "You were the one who brought up your high school friends. I don't see why you're so angry," he lied.

Sasori didn't think it would upset him if she somehow knew one of his previous partners. His experiences with those women were all meaningless compared to his fascination with her. And it meant he'd known how to touch her sooner, faster, better. But something in the way Sasuke had sputtered about her let him know that he and Sakura hadn't been on the same level. Emotionally? Physically? Academically? It didn't matter, and he didn't care.

It felt good to know her life, to let her know he knew.

Sakura seemed a loss for words. Her glare darted over his face, searching for something human in his expression to latch onto, to attack or find comfort in, but Sasori was careful not to let any of his cool slip. He was ice against her fire, hopeless and fragile, but he wouldn't let it show.

"You're getting off on this," she accused, voice low and dangerous.

"You're not wrong."

"Fuck you," she said, but she'd released his wrists and was climbing up to straddle him. He reached for her hips instinctively, but she slapped them away. "You're jealous and trying to hurt me, but it's not going to work," she said against his lips.

This time, she was wrong, but Sasori didn't correct her. Instead, his teeth clamped onto her bottom lip, and when she flinched, he licked, tasting blood.

"Is this what you need?" Sakura whispered as he pulled her flush against him. "Why can't we just talk?"

"I always need you." He didn't answer her second question, but she didn't repeat it.

Sakura tried to tease him, not letting him touch her at first, but she already knew that wasn't his style. He flipped her on her back, balancing himself above her while he ravaged her mouth, pressing her down into her own mattress.

She tried to reach for his jeans, but without realizing it, he'd grown desperate, hungry, afraid despite his carefulness and planning. Sasori unzipped, slid on the condom they'd nearly ripped, tossed her skirt up, shoved her underwear aside, and plunged into her in the span of a minute.

He fucked her like she wasn't holy. Like she was human, like he was human, like he didn't come shouting her name on the nights she wasn't around. She gasped and clutched at him, scraping her nails on all the spots that made him shudder, familiar spots and familiar touches, like a girlfriend, like she loved him.

But she was holy. And she wasn't his girlfriend. She was his muse.

He whispered choked praises in her ear as he ground into her, at an angle that made her once say she wanted to cry, sure his jeans were rough against her bare legs and loving the idea that they'd be red and chafed when they were through. When he rubbed and she came, he wasn't far behind, and he collapsed on top of her with sparks of pink and red and green and gold starbursting in his vision.

"Will you walk me to the train station tomorrow?" Sakura asked him when they finally disentangled themselves, and he nodded without thinking harder about it, without thinking maybe she was making a mistake in asking.

Sasori carded his fingers through her hair as she snuggled up to him, all the fight long gone out.

What had he done wrong?


	6. Of Sweetness and Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Clio…to thee, O Muse, has been vouchsafed the power to know the hearts of the gods and the ways by which things come to be.”  
> -Valerius Flaccus, Argonautica ll.3.15

Sakura didn’t hold his hand on their early walk to the train station, but there was something freeing in brushing her fingers against his instead every time Sasori walked a little closer. She didn’t hold his hand, but Sasori was the one carrying her duffel bag, and holding hands would’ve been a weird balancing issue for them both. She didn’t hold his hand, but she wanted to, and wondered what would happen if she were to just knock into him one more time, slyly, linking her fingers between his in one swift motion. He probably wouldn’t object, probably wouldn’t even shake her off. But he wasn’t holding her hand now because the idea of holding her hand hadn’t occurred to him. Because she wasn’t his girlfriend.

“I want to know what you’re thinking about.”

Sakura lifted her head guiltily, but Sasori was looking at her without suspicion. The trace of a smile was on his lips, curling the sides upwards just enough that she almost didn’t have to search harder.

Sakura tended to fade in the winter sun, with her pale complexion and pale hair and pale eyes. But Sasori glowed.

_What do I mean to you?_

“I’m thinking about your hands.”

Sasori looked down at them in surprise, one at his side, one gripping the worn olive handle of her bag. Sakura kept her eyes on his face, studying the way his features slipped into amusement. She could hear the dull buzz of conversation rumbling ahead at the station, the crowds of Suna University students waiting to go home.

“I have my grandmother’s hands,” Sasori told her, flexing the fingers of his free hand. She looked closer, imagining the woman who had raised him. He talked about her more than he did his parents, which wasn’t saying much. He never talked about his parents. What did their hands look like? “She called them pianist’s hands.”

The long, graceful digits and gentle taper from palm to wrist…Yes, Sakura could see that. A sudden image of Sasori in a suit, eyes closed in concentration, fingers trailing along the keys of a grand piano sprang unbidden to her imagination. It was so unlike him that she laughed. Sasori smirked, turning his hand palm-side up.

“Yes, it’s a shame neither of us had any musical talent. So now they’re scarred and dry. Knives and clay.” 

There was a jagged scar that began on the bottom crease of his ring finger and continued almost to his palm. “You like to hum, though. It’s not bad.” Her own traitorous fingers reached out and pressed on the scar, lightly, lingering. “This one’s cool.”

“That’s a bread knife. I was four.”

Sakura nodded, not noticing the way the skin around his eyes tightened at the memory. Courage flooded what was left of her sanity, and she slipped her thumb into the crease between his own thumb and index finger. She let gravity take care of the rest, dropping their arms to make their linked hands swing like a pendulum.

The crowd was in front of them now, Suna University sweaters and beanies everywhere, and someone rushed past them to high-five a goggle of freshman bros, one violent slap after another. The platform was in plain sight, but the tracks were empty as they approached, hand in hand.

Sasori’s thumb brushed against her wrist, and she shivered at the contact. A thunk, and her duffel bag fell to the snow. Sakura’s eyes followed the movement, and Sasori took the opportunity to face her, raising her hand to his lips.

“Your pulse is fast,” he said against the skin. His breath was hot against the morning chill. She’d never regretted not owning gloves despite her mother’s hounding, but she definitely didn’t regret it now. He kissed the back of her hand, then pulled her closer with it—her own hand, betraying her—and when he kissed her mouth, he didn’t release it. 

Sakura smiled against his lips, wondering at her own foolishness. It had been so easy. Of course he wouldn’t mind. Of course he wanted to hold her hand.

If only he’d thought of it himself.

“I have to see you,” he said fiercely, when the chaste kiss had ended. He squeezed their clasped hands, knocking any beginnings of depressing thoughts from her head. Sakura’s chest and cheeks flooded with warmth, and she nodded. Sasori visibly relaxed, bumping his forehead against hers. A whistle sounded, faint but approaching, and train wheels clunked closer. “We’ll video call.”

“I’ll add you.”

Sasori had never kissed her goodbye before. She hadn’t come to expect it or even wish for it. But he did now, cupping her face in his hands and taking slow, careful sips from her mouth like he was savoring her taste. He released her too soon, and she staggered against him. Sakura expected him to laugh, but he didn’t, only handed her the duffel bag with the glimmer of a smile on his face as the conductor called all aboard.

Students pushed and shoved their way onto the train cars closest to them, and Sakura hurried to secure her place in line. She fought through the underclassmen, claimed the first empty overhead bag space she could find, and curled up in the last empty window seat so she could see Sasori leave.

He hadn’t yet. He was still standing on the platform, looking at her through her window as if he’d predicted which seat she’d take. As she met his gaze, he lifted one hand out of his pocket. His coat sleeve slipped down his arm, baring his wrist and the red scorpion tattooed into it, tail poised and pincers reaching. 

“See you soon,” she mouthed, waving back. A conductor cleared his throat behind her, and she hurried to pull the ticket out of her coat pocket. While he punched holes in it, Sakura turned back to the window to catch a glimpse of Sasori’s back as he made his way home.

* * *

 

Sasori didn’t care when grades came out as a rule of thumb. Grades were decided as soon as the year was over, and nothing he could do would change them. It was only a matter of waiting, and Sasori hated waiting, so deciding not to care easily solved the problem of stress.

So when he got an email from the Dean of the College and another similar email from the Director of Graduate Admission congratulating him for his academic excellence, that must have meant grades were announced.

Sakura had told him she’d been worried about her biochem grade, even though it was only an elective for the biology minor. She texted him the same day as the emails that she’d done worse than she’d hoped, but better than she expected. He’d told her about the emails. She’d congratulated him. It had been a boring but mandatory conversation, and one he’d had to repeat with his friends.

People cared so much more about grades than he did.

Yes, he had to keep up a suitably “respectable” tally of quality points to keep his free ride. His grandmother had encouraged him throughout his schooling to reflect on what he was or wasn’t learning rather than what teachers or competitive peers _thought_ he was learning. What did he want to learn? What did he want to achieve? Did he feel he was accomplishing these goals? 

It was a different approach than his parents had taken, but Sasori had leaned into this philosophy faster than was maybe healthy. He knew he didn’t respect his teachers—and, later, his professors and instructors. He knew he didn’t respect his competitive peers—and, later, most of his cohort. But he hadn’t quite absorbed the real lesson his grandmother was trying to instill in him, which was the importance of creating and learning for oneself rather than for others’ recognition.

But Sasori didn’t want recognition.

He _craved_ it.

Emails from the Dean and Director wasn’t recognition. The emails that followed it were. Commission requests—jewelry, collage, pottery. Offers of gallery spots—Kiri Museum, another opportunity from Konoha. Referrals—a local artist or undergraduate or something, Kankuro, had asked him to give a workshop to a class of little kids on sketching. Sasori had a few emails like these after the Konoha Gallery showing, as he’d expected, but nothing quite so much as this.

Sasori’s grades couldn’t take the credit for this influx of opportunities. It was the news article that had finally gotten published about him, the photo Itachi had taken of him front page—well, of the Arts and Culture section, at least.

_Scorpion Sting: Young Artist’s Contemporary Collection Is Ready For Another Intoxicating Strike_

* * *

 

“What’re your plans tomorrow, hon?”

Sakura put her plate on the drying rack and wiped her hands on the dish towel. Dad hated when she did that instead of using a paper one, but his back was to her and she was fast. “Nothing. Why?”

“No reason,” he said with a shrug, now turning to face her. He had a fresh brown stain on his collar, probably from the eggplant. Sakura’s eye twitched. “You’ve just been staying home a lot.”

“Didn’t you want to see your friends over break?” Mom asked from the living room, where she was probably already curled up on the couch with a half-pint and a book. “What about Tenten? You haven’t talked about Tenten lately.”

Sakura’s phone buzzed in her back pocket, then buzzed again. A call. The oven clock blinked eight o’clock on the dot. Her hand shot to her pocket, and the phone buzzed impatiently in response. “I have a phone call, gotta go.”

“Now, hold on, Sakura,” Dad said, frowning and crossing his arms. “You can spend time with your parents for another five minutes.”

The phone buzzed, insistent. “Dad—“

“We’ve only got you for another week,” Mom said, peeking into the kitchen. No beer in her hand. Not yet, anyway. “We can’t make the drive down to Suna to see you as it is. We miss you, honey.”

Guilt wormed a hole into Sakura’s heart, and she dropped her hand from her buzzing pocket. “Sorry. Did you want to do something tomorrow?”

Dad beamed, and the sight of his smile sent knives into the guilt. “Actually, I was thinking it had been a while since we’d gone to see my parents.”

“That’s a great idea,” Mom chirped. Sakura’s phone fell silent. “We can make a whole day out of it. We could cook dinner there and eat in the dining room. Mom’d love that! She never gets to use the table leaves.”

“Sounds awesome,” Sakura nodded, trying to back out of the room.

“Your parents could share _their_ parents’ recipes,” Dad laughed, uncrossing his arms while the laugh jiggled his belly. 

“I have to take this call,” Sakura said, bare feet sliding off the linoleum and onto the hardwood of the hallway. 

“What’s so important about this phone call?” Mom didn’t sound suspicious, but the way her eyebrows pinched together spoke of hurt. Sakura swallowed.

“I just want to finish up this call so we can plan tomorrow,” she said, sugary-sweet feigned excitement coating her tone. Her parents wouldn’t buy it, she knew it, but if her parents were good at one thing, it was giving her privacy. “I have some ideas for things Granny’d like. Sorry.”

Sakura caught the disapproving look her parents gave each other, but they let her go, scrambling up the stairs like hellhounds were on her heels. She was careful when she shut the door, not too loud and not strangely soft. Safe in her room, she whipped out her phone and checked the screen.

Only one missed call from him. Sakura was impressed.

Sasori picked up on the first ring. “My parents wouldn’t shut up,” she groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically so he’d see her grimace no matter how pixelated the internet might’ve made her face.

Sasori was in his room, sitting at the desk if the camera angle was anything to go by. Deidara must’ve come back from vacation—the last few days, he’d been sitting on the living room couch. He was wearing a half-sleeve white shirt that she knew from personal experience was very soft and easy to rip accidentally, and her internet was good enough that she could see the even stitching along the neck, evidence from the time she’d tested that theory. A sketchpad was flat on the desk in front of him, a line of pencils disappearing under the camera’s line of vision.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sasori said, not admitting to his impatience or lack of concern. He knew she remembered his impatience. He knew she would call back.

Sakura sat on the floor, setting the phone down for a second, before pulling her high school desk chair a little closer. She propped the phone up on the chair leg and smiled at the camera, tugging her shirt collar down a little. 

“Can you see me?” she teased.

“Lean back.”

She did, scooting away from the phone until her head bumped against the edge of her mattress. Most of her body fit onto the screen, just the tip of her head and feet cut off in the camera. The waistband of her jeans cut into her stomach, and she wiggled out of them as pencils clicked together through the phone speakers. Sasori’s eyes scorched her skin even on a phone screen, and she tried to be quick. 

When her legs were bare and the jeans tossed aside, Sakura nestled herself against the bed and waited. Sasori was still sharpening his pencils, and she wondered why he hadn’t sharpened them while he was waiting for her to call back. He was so dedicated and careful with each twist, and it was taking him an infuriatingly long time. As he inspected the point of yet another perfectly lethal pencil between painted fingernails, Sakura squirmed. His eyes shot to her face, and the slow unfurling of his predatory smile sent heat dripping between her legs like he’d flicked a switch. With his long fingers— _pianist’s hands_ —he spun the latest pencil around and lightly bit on the fine eraser— _he never did that, it was a disgusting habit, he said, and didn’t help anyone think_. Sakura stared, unaware that she was panting. Sasori’s tongue darted out, tapping the eraser for a split second before retreating. His voice was smooth, commanding, expectant.

“Spread your legs.”

Sakura’s legs had never shot apart so fast in her life. Sasori didn’t stop her when her fingers pushed aside her underwear and went straight for her clit. He hummed a little in approval, but it wasn’t a groan, because his pencil was already scratching lightly on his sketchpad. Sakura didn’t need to look to know he wasn’t drawing her, was letting inspiration come to him as she stroked herself and whined his name into her fist, but she did look, because everything he made out of her was beautiful, and this moment was no exception. 

* * *

 

Sasori didn’t leave for the train station until he was sure he’d arrive just as it did. He kept the schedule open on his phone screen while he washed the frying pan Deidara had left out—again—and while he reviewed his upcoming courses’ syllabi—again—and tried to pretend nothing was wrong—again.

Break had been easier than expected, but that didn’t mean it had been _easy_. Sasori had mostly sketched, although he’d thrown another set of nesting bowls when he’d come back from the gym feeling more jittery than he’d gone in. He hadn’t bothered to glaze them, but he had fired them, and they sat naked on his dresser, proof of his weakness. Sketching ideas wasn’t the same as creating them. And he could only create them, immortalize them in wood and clay and stone, if she were here. 

Sakura was coming back _today_. But he didn’t want to be at the train station waiting with the other grad school or townie boyfriends craning his neck and jumping at any sound vaguely reminiscent of a train whistle. Being at home, heart racing and eyes drifting to the clock every five seconds, was less shameful.

But it was equally painful. This was spring semester, the second half of the year, and Sakura would graduate in a matter of months. He still had another year, a thesis year, and the question of whether Sakura would be close by for it still remained. Sasori refused to wonder what would happen if she didn’t stay in town or managed to wave her BA at a job farther away, because such anxieties were useless and unproductive to entertain, but he wasn’t so naive to think that it would be as simple as it was now. 

The video calling had been good, despite its inferiority and limitations. Could they keep something like that up in the future? Could he be inspired without her physically present? It was something to experiment with this semester. The very thought pulled something vital and agonizing out of him.

But the chem labs of undergrad hadn’t been lost on him. There was always merit to testing out a hypothesis.

Sasori’s phone buzzed a calendar alert, and he was hitting the pavement fast enough that he’d almost forgotten his scarf. A walk that should’ve taken twenty-five minutes took him nineteen, and he cursed when he saw the throng of people around the platform, no train in sight. Sasori ran a hand through his hair and glared at the sky. 

“Hi.”

_Sakura_.

Her voice sent waves of relief flooding his brain, overcoming his senses. Sasori spun around, and there she was, like a vision conjured up by his starved devotion, clutching her olive duffel between two fists, smirking at him, triumphant in having caught him off-guard. Her coat was buttoned up to her neck, making her face stand out against its fabric, bright and alive and _Sakura_.

“The train came early,” Sakura said. “Bet you hate knowing you had to make me wait.”

She didn’t have time to make another snarky comment. Sasori pulled her against him and kissed her, hands in her hair, practically lifting her off her feet. He was not gentle, and some dim part of him tried to remind him they were in a very crowded, very public space, but she let him bruise her mouth and lips and tongue with kisses, barely stopping to breathe.

When he finally managed to pull himself away, skin tingling with all the disgusted eyes on them, Sakura was gasping for air and glaring an embarrassed sort of glare at him. 

Sasori’s fears buzzed and growled in his ears, but he dismissed them by pressing his fingertips against her chin, forcing her to look up, neck bared even against the coat buttons’ best attempts at keeping it covered. Dark green eyes on fire. 

She would destroy him.

“I am going to _worship_ you,” he promised, and his smile when her glare faltered was as sharp and bright as shards of a shattered mirror.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love, folks! This chapter wasn't as easy to figure out for some reason, so I'd love to hear your feedback!


	7. Of Praise and Hymns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Polyhymnia…sketched in the air an image of a soundless voice, speaking with hands and moving eyes in a graphic picture of silence full of meaning.”  
> -Nonnus, Dionysiaca, ll.5.88

It was too late to change much of her chances of getting honors on her degree, but Sakura pushed herself harder starting from day one of the semester. She had completed her minor requirements, which meant she didn’t have to see Tsunade’s raised eyebrows at another sloppy lab report. But she still had one last contemporary art history course for the major, which was stupid, because Sakura’s specialty was in Edo-period art and she’d never need to look at another ultra-modern piece ever again. Kakashi wasn’t very sympathetic.

_They were sitting in her room, side by side on the bed, dangerously so, Sakura highlighting on her tablet and Sasori carving something spiked over a trashcan to catch the shavings. She didn’t object when he reached for her, wordless and insistent, but it took the curl of two slick fingers inside her to realize his hand was bleeding, sliced open on his carving or his knife, but he hadn’t noticed yet. His anger was frosty when she made him stop and bandage himself up._

The essays were becoming more frequent, and Sakura was relieved not for the first time that she hadn’t decided to do a senior thesis. It was an arduous and continuous process—a new essay every week. But Sakura was hesitant to pull open her phone, scroll through contacts unmessaged since the obligatory happy new year texts, crack open a bottle of wine, and let inspiration flow with drunken company.

_Sasori’s quick breathing was turning into delicious gasps as Sakura kissed down his chest, over the scar he hadn’t told her about, licking a strip down the only soft part of his stomach and navel. She tugged on his underwear and bit his hipbone meaningfully, and he moaned as he pulled her hair hard enough to hurt. “No,” he said, voice breathless anyway, and she stopped as he tugged her hair again, up. Sakura looked at him then, and while his cheeks were flushed, the glare on his face said enough. Sasori didn’t need to repeat what he’d said last year, but the words drifted from her memory anyway: “I can’t see your face like that.”_

Sometimes she’d get a text from Hinata, and Sakura would respond cheerfully, but there was an undercurrent to their conversation, something that they both knew wasn’t being said. Ino wasn’t in any of her classes, but that wasn’t a surprise. The life-drawing class had been the only course in common all four years. She barely saw her on campus, and tried to rationalize that Ino’s senior portfolio review and showing was coming up, but Sakura knew better. What had happened? What had gone wrong?

_Sasori was supposed to be heading to work soon, but he’d only grinned as he tossed her on her back and settled between her thighs, thumbs pressing into her hips as he brought his mouth down. Despite his devil-may-care smile, he hurried her along to completion, bringing her to the edge faster than Sakura thought maybe was good for her body, and he was already sitting up and putting on his shoes when she stopped shaking. With his hand on the doorframe, Sasori turned and looked at her, running the tip of his tongue over his smirking lips, but then he was gone, because Sasori hated being late for anything._

Sakura didn’t need to answer her own question. She knew what had happened, and while she wasn’t sure if something had gone _wrong_ , it didn’t matter.

_“You’re immortal, Sakura.”_

She was still alone.

* * *

 

“Come out with us. It’ll be good for you.” Itachi had shown up uninvited, as was his way, and Sasori couldn’t be bothered to get annoyed. It was fortunate Deidara wasn’t home—but maybe that was why Itachi was here. He always had an uncanny sense for people’s actions and schedules. Nothing ever seemed to take him by surprise.

“Good for me?” Sasori repeated with an unamused scoff. He applied another layer of polish to his pointer nail, slow and precise. His couch was especially comfortable today, and the spring chill blowing through the window that wouldn’t quite close reminded him just how comfortable it was.

“Yes.”

Sasori moved onto his middle fingernail, but spared a moment to toss a glare over his shoulder. Itachi hadn’t sat down. “Get to the point.”

“You’ve been threatening to bestow your presence on us for weeks now, but you’ve made yourself scarce, as well as making excuses.” The rest of the sentence was unspoken: _And we all know why._

Sasori didn’t feel like playing around. He shook out his hand before lining up the brush to his ring fingernail. “Please go on, Itachi. I said get to the point, and I meant it.”

“Don’t be a dick.” Itachi’s voice was mild, as if he were commenting on the broken window and that it warranted a call to the landlord. “Find inspiration at the bottom of a glass for a change of pace.”

A drop of nail polish spilled over to his cuticles, and Sasori grit his teeth. He reached for the tissue box on the coffee table. “She’s my muse, Itachi. That’s not how inspiration works.”

“I know you haven’t texted her tonight. You wouldn’t be having this conversation with me if you weren’t considering.”

Sasori, whirling around brandishing a tissue, prepared to snap something scathing back. But Itachi was staring at him, and Sasori saw his own reflection in his glasses. 

He looked like a madman. Tissue clenched in his fist, black polish dripping down one finger, wild glare branded into his features, lips curled back in a snarl. 

He wasn’t going to create anything tonight, and they both knew it. Sasori had been annoying the shit out of Itachi by swearing he’d try sculpting, throwing, sewing something on his own, then ignoring Itachi’s questions about how it had gone the next day. This had been a night he’d planned for _himself_ , to prove his friend wrong, and it was setting him on edge. Loathe as he was to admit it, this wasn’t Itachi’s fault.

It was hers. Hers and the way she moved, the part in her hair, the gasp in her lips, the art carved in the curves of her body. Sasori’s phone felt heavy in his pocket, and the urge, the guilt, the craving roared to life.

“Come out with us,” Itachi said again, seconds before Sasori nearly plunged his still-drying hand into his pocket. “Kisame’s already there. So’s Konan and Nagato.”

“Fine,” Sasori replied, trying to pretend there wasn’t desperation in the quick response. Itachi pretended, too. He stood up and twisted the cap closed on the polish bottle. “Fine,” he said again, checking his pockets for his wallet and keys.

“Leave your phone.”

“That’s risky,” Sasori shot back.

“So’s keeping it.”

They stared each other down, Itachi’s eyes boring into Sasori’s, unmoved and unrelenting. 

The phone landed on the couch, bouncing on the cushion with the force it had been thrown. 

Sasori threw on his coat and stormed out the door, nails half-polished, coat unbuttoned, Itachi triumphant in that quiet way of his.

“Fine.”

* * *

 

When Sasori didn’t respond to her text right away, Sakura didn’t think much of it. He used to take anywhere from a minute to an hour to respond, and it all depended on how engrossed in his art he was, or if he was working the cash register at the art supplies store.

When he didn’t respond to her text in fifteen minutes, Sakura remembered that was how it _used_ to be. These days, their text conversations were rapid-fire bouts of time and place. On the odd days he took longer to respond, he apologized. A quick apology, but it was so characteristic of him to feel that making her wait for anything was worth saying sorry. So she didn’t think much of it.

When he didn’t respond to her text in a half hour, Sakura thought about sending a second text before changing her mind. She didn’t _need_ to text him. He _was_ allowed to have a life. His life seemed to revolve around art and her, sure, but it was healthy. Her own friends’ happy new year texts slammed into her mind, unbidden, and her heart throbbed painfully. How many of them had she actually responded to? 

When he didn’t respond to her text in an hour, Sakura gave up on checking her phone. She was being stupid. It didn’t mean he was ignoring her, or playing one of his rare jealousy games. She knew she’d done nothing wrong—and, she reminded herself, he hadn’t, either. In fact, Sakura decided, sliding her desk chair back and zipping up her hoodie, she should take a leaf out of his book. Get some fresh spring air. Yes, it was nighttime. But the student union cafe was open at all hours.

By the time she was walking across the quad, Sakura had almost forgotten about Sasori’s radio silence. Students were still out and about, lounging on the grass even though it was dark and not exactly warm, or moving in clumps full of chatter and laughter. Sakura made her solitary way to the student union, eyes on the stars and hands shoved in her fleece pockets.

She nearly had a heart attack when she saw the boy-shaped figure slumped over a book in a familiar corner of the cafe. Her feet carried her over to him before she even glanced at the spring special menu.

He looked up at her when she arrived. She hadn’t exactly been quiet. “Sakura!” Naruto grinned at her, a red line on his freckled cheeks from where the book cover had pushed against them. 

The bags under his eyes were smaller, less violet than she’d last seen them.

“Can I sit with you?” Her own mumble was so timid.

“Of course. You don’t need friggin’ permission.” He gestured at a seat, not the chair across from him, but the chair next to him. She took it.

“You look better than when I last saw you,” Sakura told him, and he laughed, that good old Naruto laugh that echoed throughout a room no matter its acoustics.

“That’s good, ‘cause you look like hell!” he declared, the laugh still in the edges of his voice. Before Sakura had time to rub her face as if to scrub the hell off it, he was talking again. “Haven’t seen you since last semester. I’m doing a lot better.”

There was that guilt again. It made speaking difficult. “Are you gonna—graduate on time?”

Naruto smiled, a slow, shy, pleased thing. “C’s get degrees,” he said, and the guilt twisted even more in her chest. Then he sighed. “I mean, yeah, it’s probably my Cs that are saving me. But I’m not giving up. I can’t. I got Hinata, and Lee, and—and you, and everyone supporting me. There’s no way I can just—give up when I got so many people ready to help.”

“You do have me,” Sakura said, surprised by the fierceness in her voice. Naruto blinked, surprised as well. 

“I mean, yeah—“

“No, I mean it, Naruto. I’ve been kinda absent. And I know it’s like, super meaningless when someone tells you ‘I’m here if you need to talk.’ So seriously, I’m gonna talk to you.” Sakura hadn’t cried lately. She was relieved that she managed to swallow these tears. “Tell me what I can do. Or tell me stuff and I’ll listen. Or I’ll tell you stuff, I don’t care. Just, yeah. You’re my friend.”

Was she making any sense? Naruto’s brows were furrowed as he listened, but they wiped off his face when she was done. No creases remained.

“All right,” he said. Sakura blinked. That was Naruto, all right. “You’re my friend, too. And I’ve been trying to get better about telling my friends stuff, like how I’m feeling and shit.”

Hinata’s work, no doubt. Sakura smiled, hoping it wasn’t as shaky as it felt. But it seemed to encourage him.

“It really sucked when Sasuke dropped out last year.”

“It did,” she agreed, and for once, admitting it didn’t hurt.

“I know you and him had this weird thing going on and whatever, so sorry to bring him up,” Naruto remembered. “But he was, he _is_ my best friend.”

“It’s fine. I know.”

“We were gonna graduate together, like almost right after each other,” Naruto said, uncharacteristically softly. “Uchiha and Uzumaki.”

“You guys were gonna be the dream team. Fighting crime.” Sakura’s smile faded, but Naruto  nodded enthusiastically, slamming his hand on the table hard enough to make his open book’s pages tremble. 

“You better believe it! But Sakura,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a huff, “it’s still gonna happen. I know it. _I_ believe it.”

Sakura folded her hands in her lap, unsure of what else to say. He noticed, shaking his head at her.

“Okay, so I totally didn’t last semester. But I do now. I had all of break to think about it. And when I got my crappy grades, it only made it clearer.”

“Did you see him over break?” Sakura asked without thinking better of it, but Naruto shook his head again.

“No. But that doesn’t matter. I still knew. Because I had people believing in me even when I was totally a mess. And I can’t just give up and not graduate while I have people believing in me—I have to show Sasuke that he can do anything with support. Which he has. He has _so many_ people on his side. And I know,” he said hastily when her eyes widened, misunderstanding the expression, “I know that means you, too, Sakura. I know you just want him to succeed even if he can be an asshole. Even if he is an asshole, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“So yeah,” Naruto said, exhaling on a whistle. He turned to her, and now his blue eyes were shining, looking at her with that kind of intensity he only reserved for the extra-large ramen bowls at the truck, searching for the best pieces to pick out first. “I gotta prove that it’s never too late to come back to the surface when you’ve hit rock bottom. You gotta trust people to help you float.”

Sakura nodded along with every word he said, bobbing her head like a lunatic with each syllable. But she couldn’t stop. “I’ve been a shitty friend,” she blurted out. Hell. She was making this about her. But the words were said.

“So’s Sasuke. So have I.”

Sakura bit her tongue on the other stupid apologies and insistences that threatened to bubble up. She settled for nodding again. The passion in Naruto’s eyes softened.

“Do you need a hug?”

Another nod.

Naruto needed no other encouragement. He pulled her against him, chair screeching against the linoleum, and his hug was so tight and full of understanding that it took all of Sakura’s strength not to let him squeeze any tears out of her.

* * *

 

It had been far too long since Sasori had been drunk. He’d forgotten the pleasing openness of his mind, the fun in slapping Kisame on the back hard enough to make him choke on his vodka, the ease with which he laughed with his mouth wide open and head thrown back.

He wasn’t _drunk_ -drunk. Just tipsy. Sober enough to notice that Itachi was _wasted_. No one had been counting his drinks, because it was Itachi and Itachi could be trusted, and the bartender had been clearing glasses with lightning speed. He’d played with his lighter until the bartender threatened to toss him out and was now barely holding onto his barstool, chatting with Nagato about some incomprehensible nightmare he’d had. Nagato looked amused—at least, Sasori thought he was amused; the piercings practically covered his face—but Konan was whispering to Kisame in concerned undertones. Kisame shrugged.

“Guess it’s on me,” Sasori mumbled. Well, he meant to mumble. 

“Yeah, kid. You came in with him,” Kisame agreed, a sharp smirk cut into his face. “You get him home.”

“Don’t call me kid.” But the warning came out petulant. Kidlike.

“Sasori, I really think you should get him home,” Konan said, sober as a rock. Or something. “Are you good to drive?”

“We walked here,” Sasori answered her, forgetting to mention he did not, in fact, own a car. “Itachi came to, uh, my place, I think. We walked here.” Was he repeating himself? He couldn’t tell. Where was Itachi, anyway? He wasn’t on the barstool where he was five minutes ago. Nagato sipped something colorful alone on the end of the bar. Sasori spun around on his stool— _mistake_ —in the middle of whatever Konan was saying.

“Sasori—“

“I gotta find Itachi,” he said to no one in particular, lurching off the chair and trying to pretend he wasn’t painfully dizzy. As if Itachi had heard him, the door to the bar opened just a crack, and Itachi’s face poked through.

“Sasori, there are you. Let’s peace out.”

If it weren’t for the “peace out,” Itachi looked and sounded sober. Sasori stared. Itachi grinned, huge and _drunk_.

“Yeah, I was looking for you. Are you good to walk?”

“No.” Itachi’s grin only grew, if possible. “Sasuke’s gonna drive us home.”

“Again?” Sasori groaned, following Itachi out.

“Yeah, you have a good night, too, kid,” Kisame called, but Itachi had held the door for too short a time, and it hit Sasori’s head, keeping him from sniping something back. Damn it. Score one for Kisame.

The black sedan was already in the parking lot. Sasuke honked, and Sasori flinched. Sasuke honked again.

“That was fast,” Sasori noted, wondering if he should keep Itachi steady.

“I called a few minutes ago. I think.”

“My phone!” Sasori’s hands clapped to his ass like he was worried it would fall off, heart jumping in his chest. Metal clump of keys in one pocket. Firm square—no, that was his wallet. “Itachi, I left my phone in the bar!”

“No, you didn’t—“ As if on cue, Itachi tripped, and Sasori caught him on reflex. He winced—Itachi had nearly bashed his head on the car door. The cloudy image of his phone on the couch surfaced. The driver’s window buzzed down.

“Get in. I didn’t know we were taking two idiots home.” Sasuke’s glare was wholly unsympathetic to his brother’s dilemma. Itachi coughed and tried to adjust his glasses, succeeding only in smudging them. 

“Reverse shotgun,” Itachi said, fumbling for the door handle. He pulled it open with too much force, and Sasori tottered out of the way. Without further ado, he’d hopped into the back seat and sprawled out on it.

“Move.”

“No.”

Sasori was about to shove, but Sasuke blared his horn again. Sasori plugged his ears, one finger missing the ear entirely, and glared the entire stomp to the passenger seat.

Sasuke was driving almost before Sasori had closed the door, much less buckled his seatbelt. “D’you need my address?” Sasori asked. Sasuke didn’t say anything, but he did roll his eyes. Did that mean he had a good memory? Did that mean he’d make Sasori walk home from Itachi’s? Or wherever Sasuke lived? Did that mean he’d kill him as soon as Itachi was home safe? Sasori didn’t particularly care and slumped into the seat. Okay, maybe he was a little drunker than he thought.

“I gotta smoke,” Itachi announced from the back, fumbling in his coat.

“No you fucking don’t,” Sasuke snapped. “And if you vomit in my car, I’m making you clean it.”

Itachi held up two meek, empty hands.

“Nice car for a dropout,” Sasori said, closing his eyes.

“Nice whiskey cologne for a future has-been,” Sasuke replied casually. Sasori’s half-slit eyes shot open. “Saw your ugly suit in the paper. Bet Itachi took that photo.”

“Be nice,” his brother insisted behind them. They both ignored him. Rage rumbled quietly in Sasori’s stomach, ready to be fueled by more alcohol. Shame there wasn’t more in the car. Sasuke could’ve used some—or the bottle smashed over his head, broken glass slicing his face open.

“Yeah, it was a bad suit,” Sasori drawled as smoothly as his slur would let him. “Your ex-girlfriend thought so, too. Ripped it off with her nails.” He tried not to look at Sasuke, he really did, but it was worth showing off his obvious glee to see the poorly-veiled disgust on Sasuke’s face.

“She wasn’t my girlfriend,” Sasuke bit out. 

 _She’s not mine, either_ , Sasori’s mind helpfully supplied, but he managed to keep his mouth shut somehow, keep the age-old declaration quiet. Sasuke took the silence as an excuse to keep rambling.

“But I don’t talk about that because I have class. And because I respect her privacy. And I respect _her_ , even if she’s with a burnt-out drunk who’s not good enough for her. She’s made mistakes before, and I know that better than anyone, but hopefully she’ll come to her senses and find someone who’s not either of us and live happily fucking ever after in peace. Are you going to shut up and let me drive, or are you going to make me drop you on the curb like trash?”

Sasori could _feel_ Itachi staring at him, but when he glanced in the rearview mirror, Itachi was the very image of contented drunken sleep. How did drunk people manage to conk out so damn fast?

“You’re the one who won’t shut up,” Sasori pointed out. “You don’t need to prove anything to _me_.”

Because Sasori already knew he was pathetic. No amount of proving could change that. And maybe if Sasori were someone else, he’d be amused by Sasuke’s insistence on having “class” and “respect” when he’d never made Sakura come without help, never seen both her hands clutched in her own hair while she struggled to keep her moans and cries quiet, never seen all ten fingers covering her eyes and mouth so that he had to stop and pry them away because he needed to see her face, never felt her all her nails rake stinging lines into his back while he pressed her against the wall and felt her tighten around him like Heaven’s judgment—

“It’s not about me anymore,” Sasuke said simply, staring at the road ahead. “I hope she shatters you.”

The hum of the engine punctuated his sentence as he turned up a vaguely familiar road. Sasori didn’t know whether to laugh or say something else, to test this asshole’s threat.

“Itachi, we’re here. You can take your fuck of a friend with you.”

Itachi mumbled something sort of resembling a “thank you” or possibly an admonishment, but Sasori slammed the door closed faster than he thought he could get out. Itachi’s door clicked, and he pushed himself out, surprisingly steady on his feet. Sasuke sped away before the door had closed. Again.

“Your brother’s such a weak dipshit,” Sasori spat. Itachi blinked at him and began rifling in his pockets for his keys. 

“So’re you. Over the same girl, too. Come on in,” he said before Sasori could explode. “You don’t seem good to walk home.”

“You weren’t that drunk,” Sasori accused him, following Itachi onto the porch. Itachi clicked the keys into the lock with enough dexterity to confirm Sasori’s suspicions.

“Drunk enough to think that talk could’ve been good for you both,” Itachi disagreed. “I have a spare toothbrush. You can take the couch.”

“My phone,” Sasori remembered as the door swung shut behind them, and Itachi looked ready to kill him. “It’s still at home.”

“I’m not letting you get mugged. Also, I’m setting the alarm, so if you try to leave, it’s gonna give you the worst headache of your life.” The keypad beeped approvingly. “You can live without your phone for one night.”

Sasori fumed and spun on Itachi, but the memory of the last time he’d glared into Itachi’s glasses stopped him mid-strike. Itachi’s hand was raised to block his drunken swing anyway, and he’d settled into a familiar fighting stance. Krav maga. Sasori raised his hands in supplication.

“I’m sorry.” When Itachi didn’t look appeased, he repeated it. “I’m sorry, okay? Thanks for letting me crash.” Itachi relaxed, cautious in his movements.

“Any time.”

“I love you, man.”

“Sleep it off, Sasori.”

In the neighborhood over, Sasori’s phone lay cold and silent on the couch, screen dark and unresponsive. It had only buzzed once.


	8. Of Masks and Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why do you delay, O divine Sophokles, to accept the gifts of Melpomene? Why do you fix your eyes upon the ground? Since I for one do not know whether it is because you are now collecting your thoughts, or because you are awe-stricken at the presence of the goddess. But be of good heart, good sir, and accept her gifts; for the the gifts of the gods are not to be rejected.”  
> -Philostratus the Younger, Imagines 13

Sakura woke up to a single text buzzing her awake. She slapped her hand around on her desk, face still in the pillow, before managing to land on the phone and bring it closer to her face.

**Hey, Forehead. Wanna get bubble tea? u free?**

Sakura’s heart swelled with warmth. Ino. A text from Ino. Above this one was the happy new year’s text—unresponded to. It had been three months. But Ino had texted her. She checked her clock—an hour before next class. Sakura switched off the alarm before replying.

**After dinner? I’d love to, but I have class.**

Ino agreed, and Sakura scuttled out of bed, ready to start the day an hour early. 

She didn’t notice it was the only text she’d received.

* * *

 

By the time Sasori had rushed home from Itachi’s, he’d managed to lose most of his hangover. He didn’t think he’d been _that_ drunk, but he hadn’t had enough water, apparently. Fortunately, Itachi had been watching weird cooking videos online, and had whipped up a hangover cure of lemon juice and ginger and maybe some sort of spice. They took them like shots together, squinting in the sunlight streaming through Itachi’s kitchen window.

His phone was on the couch, right where he’d left it. Sasori seized it, ignoring Deidara’s confused good morning, and, heart hammering, checked it for messages.

There was only one. From Sakura.

**Are you around?**

A simple text. It was too simple. Sasori narrowed his eyes at his phone. She was usually more straightforward if she wanted to come over, or invite him to her room. 

Fear settled deep in his stomach. Was this a veiled “We need to talk” text?

Itachi’s voice from last semester floated into his head, ghost-like. _You’re overthinking it._

Sasori’s mouth flattened into a hard line. He probably was, but…she hadn’t sent a follow-up text, wondering where he was. Of course, there was always the possibility that she’d simply respected the fact that he was busy. But there was nothing this morning, when he’d clearly be free.

Didn’t she _care_?

He dropped his phone back on the couch and headed to the bathroom for a shower.

“You could at least say hi, yeah.”

The Uchiha brothers were assholes, infiltrating his head with the memories of their stupid monotone voices. Warnings and threats filled his mind, and as hard as he scrubbed his skin with soap, hard enough that the skin was raw against his towel, he couldn’t shake the fear out of his body.

_I hope she shatters you._

* * *

 

Ino wasn’t at the bubble tea place when Sakura arrived, and she tried not to be disappointed. She’d been hoping not to be the first to arrive, although that had been a slim hope—Ino was late to everything.

What a contrast to other people in her life.

Sakura ordered her drink—grapefruit jasmine with fruit jelly—and sat at the corner of the counter, far enough away from the door that she wouldn’t look creepy. The bubble tea machine whirred away, crackling through all the unpleasant thoughts in her head. For the first time in months, Sakura’s mind was blank.

She almost didn’t notice Ino walk in, but the machine quieted. Ino looked cute in a purple dress with little zippers on the sleeves. She wasn’t wearing a jacket.

“Sakura, your tea,” the cashier called. Sakura swung off her seat and reached for her drink, but as soon as it was in her fingers, Ino swept her up in a hug. Sakura froze for a split second before wrapping her arms around Ino’s back, careful not to spill her tea on Ino’s nice dress.

“Missed you,” Ino whispered. “Loser.”

“Yeah.”

Ino pushed Sakura away as suddenly as the hug had started, ordering her taro with yogurt pop and following Sakura back to the corner of the bar. The machine whirred again, blocking all thought and conversation.

“When’s the senior art show?” Sakura asked when they finally called Ino’s name. Ino stabbed the straw through the plastic top and slurped noisily.

“You didn’t see my fliers? I worked really hard on them. They’re all around campus.”

“I haven’t, uh,” Sakura faltered, “I haven’t really been…paying much attention. You know. Don’t walk around campus much—“

“It’s fine. I know. I’m sorry.” Ino looked away, and the awkward silence Sakura had been dreading descended upon the two of them.

“It’s the weekend before graduation,” Ino said at last, punctuating the sentence with a self-conscious slurp. A single ball of yogurt pop rolled up the straw and disappeared into her mouth.

“I’ll be there,” Sakura promised, forcing what she hoped was a genuine-looking smile on her face.

“Sakura,” Ino said slowly, setting her tea down on the counter. “If you don’t come, I want you to know that I’ll be worried.”

“As if you’re not already,” the words shot out of Sakura’s mouth, and Ino raised her eyebrows. But Sakura’s voice wasn’t hostile. It was quiet.

“Yeah,” Ino said after a moment. “I mean, who wouldn’t be? When their friend just—vanishes after meeting some boy she’s never talked to. So yeah. I’ll be worried if you don’t come. Because that’ll make me feel like, I dunno, like that’s really it. That you’ve made a choice for yourself.”

“It’s not about you,” Sakura whispered. “I promise, it really isn’t.”

“I know. I wouldn’t care as much if you’d just decided to ditch me. Why do you think I’m so worried? Is he not—letting you talk to us?” Ino’s eyes were wide, and she was jiggling her leg almost violently under the counter. Her tea shook a little.

“No,” Sakura hurried to assure her. “It’s just…overwhelming. Consuming. I lose track of—things.”

_The numbers on her clock grew fuzzy as Sasori licked and kissed his way up her stomach to her breasts, gently tugging on her right nipple with his teeth. His tongue flicked over her, and she gasped, pressing her hands against his bare back. His chest was on her chest, skin against skin, and the look in his honey eyes as he watched her face change was positively_ predatory—

“Hey.” Ino’s voice, uncharacteristically soft, brought her back to the present. “What are we gonna do with you?”

“I don’t know,” Sakura confessed. How long had it been since she and Ino were sniping at each other over PDFs and sketchbooks? How long had it been since they’d sat on her bed passing a bottle of wine back and forth while Ino went into gratuitous detail about the edible body paint she and Sai had tried and horribly failed to use? How long had it been since they’d had a real heart-to-heart like this?

“Does he make you happy?”

_Hot skin and amber eyes and sharp smiles and rough thrusts and sensitive scars and beautiful hands and reverent touches and a smooth voice_

Sakura’s first instinct was to say yes. Yes, he made her happy like no one else. Like Sasuke never had. That she made him happy, inspired, glowing. Like she hadn’t ever done for Sasuke.

_Red blood and burning looks and hard mouths and insistent fingers and unspoken stories and sculptures carved like her body and frosty anger and a flat tone_

“I don’t know.”

She didn’t want to see the pity in Ino’s eyes, so she looked away. If only she were strong enough to cry, to admit it out loud in more concrete terms, to break down in a bubble tea shop in a town she was going to leave.

“Sakura. You’re not alone.”

* * *

 

She still hadn’t texted by the time Sasori was ready for bed, and Sasori was past the point of caring. He hadn’t texted, either. If she was going to play this game, he’d play with it, play with her. 

How _old_ was he?

He went to bed. He turned off his phone. He had work in the morning and couldn’t be bothered to stress about something as pointless as whether or not a _girl_ had texted him back after sending a vague, frustrating message that had been unelaborated upon. 

Sasori flicked off the lights, crawled into his bed, and lay awake in the darkness, heart pounding. 

She wasn’t a girl. She was _his_ , his _muse_. 

Thoughts of cherry blossoms drifting away in a cold breeze blew through his thoughts as he struggled to fall asleep. His fingers twitched, itching to hold or create or scratch into the sheets. Sasori knew there were pronounced shadows under his eyes when morning finally came and released him from the prison his bedroom had become. 

There were no new texts on his phone.

Sasori’s work day went by in a blur. A hoard of touring prospective students toddled into the store, gaping and pointing at all the shelves he knew well. He had to deal with overprotective parents asking stupid questions about the BFA that he knew nothing about, but when he finally snapped and said he was an MFA who knew nothing about the undergrad requirements, that only got them more excited and asking more questions.

All he wanted to do was zone out, make his mind go blank so he didn’t stop and think about Sakura, the way she tasted, the way her back arched when he fucked her, gentle curves and sharp cries, the way—

A cut appeared on his thumb, oozing thick dots of blood. Sasori stared at it, watching it grow and bleed and run. The box cutter grinned red and vicious in his other hand, the half-opened package from the post office sitting innocently on the receiving counter.

“Sasori, oh, shit—be careful! Hold on, I’ll get the first aid kit.”

_Sasori, stop. You’re bleeding_.

He wasn’t sure whose voice he remembered as his boss stung him with disinfectant. Was it Sakura, pushing his fingers aside and bandaging him, the only scrap of cloth between them both? Was it Itachi, first year of grad school, forcing him to lie still as the health center aides ran up, ready to pry the broken pieces from a failed glassblowing lesson from his shins? Was it Dad, the day before they had all crashed, cleaning the bread crumbs from his thumb only to leave a wound he’d pick at until it scarred, the only memory of him he had besides the evidence of the car accident on his chest?

Sasori shook his head over and over and over while his boss helped him with the bandage. And the day flew by, glimpses of pink boxes and pink umbrellas and pink hats in the corner of his eye making him freeze all over again. His phone didn’t buzz.

By the time he got off work, Sasori’s hands were shaking, something that seemed to be happening with greater frequency these days. 

He hated waiting.

* * *

 

“Naruto talked to Sasuke, apparently,” Ino told her, curled up next to her on Sakura’s bed and scrolling through her phone. Like nothing had happened. And like she hadn’t said anything to make Sakura’s mouth drop open.

“And—how’d it go?” Sakura managed to choke out. 

“With Sasuke?”

“Yeah, of course with Sasuke!”

Ino shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Sasuke’s been in a bad mood, but when wasn’t he? Was he that cranky even with you?”

Sakura bristled, but forced herself to relax. Ino didn’t notice. It wasn’t as hard to talk about Sasuke now, but that didn’t mean it was _fun_. “I don’t know. I think it was easy to just, you know, have sex and not think about things or get mad at each other very often.”

“Yeah, but you had a friendship to fall back on. When things ended.”

What was Ino getting at? Sakura stared at her friend’s back, but Ino kept scrolling. Why was she so talking about this?

“I suppose,” Sakura hedged. Ino hummed in response, and it twisted something sharp in Sakura’s chest. 

As if on cue, her phone buzzed and lit up with a new message. Sasori.

**I want to come over.**

Sakura was ready to type back that she was with a friend and could it wait, but her blood froze when she realized it had been the first text from him in two days. He’d never responded to her text two days ago until now, and she hadn’t thought to check in on him.

She hadn’t thought. She hadn’t _thought._ She hadn’t thought to text him, she hadn’t thought about him, he was probably so _pissed_ —

Sakura sat up suddenly, toppling Ino off her side. 

“Hey!’

**I’ll let you in, just lmk when you’re outside.**

“Ino, I’m sorry. You’re gonna hate me,” Sakura began, rubbing the corner of her eye, but Ino’s own eyes narrowed.

“Sasori’s coming over.”

It wasn’t a question.

“It’s gonna be bad. You probably shouldn’t be here,” Sakura tried to warn her, but Ino shook her head.

“I don’t think so. I’ll let him in.”

“Ino,” Sakura said, unsure where her sentence was leading. Ino seemed to know it, too.

“When he texts, I’ll let him in. You can come with. But I want to at least meet him. Officially.”

Sakura sucked in a deep breath. “Okay.”

When her phone buzzed again, it broke only five minutes of tense silence. He must have been on his way already—he must have assumed she’d let him in, Sakura thought, distantly annoyed. She and Ino ran downstairs, but Ino was ahead of her, dodging underclassmen and getting to the door first.

“Hello,” she said to the unseen Sasori breezily when she opened the door just a crack. “Did Sakura ever manage to find your cock?”

Sakura turned bright red behind her, expecting or perhaps hoping Sasori would offer one of his rare laughs, but there was silence for a moment.

“You can ask her yourself.”

“I’m Ino,” she said, pulling the door open to let Sasori in. 

He looked like shit. Just as she’d feared. 

There were violet shadows under his eyes, his mouth that straight, hard line she hated to see. His leather jacket was half-buttoned, as if he couldn’t have made the effort to do it properly. He was holding a hand to his chest, the thumb sporting a bandage wound tight around it.

“What happened to your hand?” Sakura asked, and when he looked at her, the line of his mouth softened a little. 

But his eyes were _wild_.

“Are you going to let me in or not?”

“Charming,” Ino muttered, and Sasori’s eyes shot to her face. Ino brightened. “Come on in, Sasori.”

Sasori made a beeline for her, sidestepping Ino and stopping in front of Sakura. “I need to talk to you,” he insisted, bending his head, eyelashes dark against his skin, such a different color from his hair. 

“Are we going to?” Sakura asked him quietly. For a moment, his eyes went dark, the fastest dilating of his pupils, and she only noticed because she’d been looking for it. Then they were back to an earnest shade of amber.

“Yes. I’m around now.”

The phrasing. It was her text.

“Ino,” Sakura said over his shoulder.

“I get it. I’m leaving,” Ino snapped, but it didn’t sound like her heart was in the anger. “Sakura, text me later, okay?”

“I promise.”

Sasori hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked at Ino at all while she left the dorm. “Come on,” he murmured, but there wasn’t something exactly sensual in the softness. 

Sakura led him up the cement stairs to her room.

* * *

 

He wanted her the second the door closed.

He wanted to drag her to him by the front of her shirt, stare in her eyes, watch the dead uncertainty in them shift to confusion and lust, devour her, sink into her heat the second she sat on her desk chair, crossing her legs at the ankles.

What was this?

“What’s up?” she asked, the forced casualness in her voice painfully obvious. And it hurt, it hurt, unfamiliar pain stabbing through his gut.

This wasn’t _art_.

“I hadn’t heard from you.” He’d wanted to stop there. He’d wanted to let her pick up, elaborate, ease his mind. But he couldn’t. He didn’t. “You asked me if I was around, and I wasn’t, but I didn’t hear from you at all after that. I haven’t heard from you in days.”

A slight flush was coming to Sakura’s cheeks. Was it embarrassment? Surprise? Anger? He hoped it was anger. His fingers twitched, to touch her, to claw out his eyes. “I haven’t heard from you either, Sasori.” There it was. Anger. This was _familiar_. This was something to hold onto.

A smile began creeping its way onto his face. “I suppose I’ve failed as an artist,” he said, gratified by her response. The smile wouldn’t stop. “I can’t even read my muse. I can’t tell what she wants. I don’t know what she expects of me.”

“I expect—I don’t expect anything from you, Sasori!”

“That’s a lie.”

What was he saying? He couldn’t stop _talking_.

“There must be something,” he insisted, stepping closer to her. She remained in her chair, the red fading from her skin. “You always do. Everyone does.”

“Everyone does what? Want something? Expect something?”

“I want you,” he said. “I don’t expect anything of you.”

“Now you’re lying,” Sakura said, rising out of her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. 

“I’m _not_ —“

“You expect me to be a lot of things, Sasori.”

He stopped, faint smile frozen on his face. Something unpleasant and possessive and climbing and clawing began scrabbling up his spine, some unfamiliar emotion.

Sakura looked at him, really looked at him, and Sasori fought the urge to recoil. He wished she would get angry again. Something was changing, something was different.

“You do,” she said, coming closer to him. When her hands touched the sides of his face, his eyes snapped shut.

_Panic_.

That’s what it was.

“I want you,” he said again, and he felt his lashes flutter against her cheeks. 

_I need you. I crave you. I can’t lose you._

Why was he so _afraid_?

He couldn’t stand it.

Her lips on his were like a blessing. 

It was different. It was a change. Sakura stripped him of his clothes carefully, and he was sure he heard something in her shirt sleeve tear when she let him do the same for her. He was not careful as he guided her to her bed. He was not careful, not dedicated, not anything but hurried as he slid inside her, cursing against her neck. She carved curved lines in his back with her nails, fumbling against him, legs wrapped around him, gasps like sobs.

It wasn’t art. No visions came to him. No holy revelation. No design, no twisting sculpture, no thoughts graced him. 

Sleep and its oblivion claimed him before he had time to hold her.

* * *

 

Sakura woke up before Sasori did. It wasn’t a surprise. He’d seemed delirious last night, unlike himself. He needed the sleep.

But people were honest when they weren’t themselves.

There had been an undercurrent to his words. There had been agony clearly left unspoken, something haunting and dominating his mind. The way he’d looked at her as he’d accused her had been full of pain, like everything he said was wrenched out of him, visceral and physical. 

Why did he care so much? Why did this man demand so much so suddenly? A man who refused to call her his girlfriend? A man who made beauty out of her existence?

Sakura reached for her phone and dimmed the brightness, careful not to disturb Sasori or his regular breathing. She texted Ino.

**I’m okay. Just checking in like I promised.**

No response. Her eyes flitted to the clock—it was way too early for Ino to be up on a weekend. Belatedly, Sakura wondered if she’d worried her friend by not sending this text earlier last night.

Sasori showed no signs of stirring. Sakura checked her email, first her school, then her personal, swiping through announcements and passing over coupons. 

She nearly passed over one too many.

_Dear Ms. Haruno,_ the message preview started. _We are delighted to…_

Sakura’s heart rate sped up, but her hands went numb. No, no, no, not now, why now.

She tapped.

And it was exactly what she thought.

“How long have you been up?” a voice thick with sleep mumbled next to her. Sakura closed the app faster than should have been humanly possible.

“Not very long,” she lied, putting the phone on her pillow and brushing a cowlick out of Sasori’s face. He closed his eyes at her touch. An unusual thing. 

_I can’t see your face like that_.

“I need to go get breakfast,” she said softly, bringing her hand back to her chest. Sasori’s eyes opened slowly, and that haunted look hadn’t quite gone out of them. If anything, the shadows under his eyes were darker.

But he smiled. It was cold, but it was a smile. And he let her get dressed in peace.

 


	9. Of Eloquence and Mastery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come down, Calliope, from above:  
> Breathe on the pipe a strain of fire:  
> Or if a graver note thou love,  
> With Phoebus’s cittern and his lyre.  
> You hear her? or is this the play  
> Of fond illusion?”  
> -Q. Horatius Flaccus, Odes, ll.1-6

It wasn't _right_.

Everything he created wasn't enough. Good, but not enough. Sasori spent too long in the studio at the wheel, throwing and rethrowing, until the student workers told him they were closing for the night. He left with hands cracking from dried clay. But that wasn't the problem.

The problem was his obsession. The problem was he no longer could look at the sky and see pictures in the thin lines of clouds, look at the grain on his kitchen table and see patterns in the whorls, look at his reflection and see skin and teeth and eyes and hair and pores instead of _failure_.

Sasori knew he was withdrawing from her, frightened like an animal of her burning touch and searing kiss. He knew what he feared. That every whisper, every press of fingers on his spine, was the last he would hear or feel from her. How could he savor something when it would be gone all too soon, leaving nothing but the souring taste in his mouth?

It was better to pull away. It was better to stand back and watch her fire from a safe distance.

But he _couldn't_.

Sakura was trying to let him have his space, he knew. He wouldn't text, counting the minutes ticking by until it seemed a reasonable amount of time to stop ignoring her. And she would respond slowly, cautiously, but each second that passed without a buzz from his phone was like needles in his back and stomach. She stopped asking for him to come over, waited for him to ask. He couldn't let her over to his apartment anymore. He would, soon, when this had all blown over, had changed. But that wasn't now.

Deidara didn't question her absence, which should have been more infuriating. He still left his dishes in the sink, still let his flings sit in Sasori's chair until Sasori snapped at them to move, still laughed too loud at dumb shows on the TV while Sasori was trying to work. Thesis prep was beginning, and there were too few places on campus where Sasori felt like he had the privacy he needed. He'd always needed quiet to work. Deidara either didn't understand or, more likely, didn't care. Nothing had changed for Deidara. No one had eaten away the neural pathways in his brain, leaving nothing but ghosts of memories in his shell of a body.

When Sasori did text, when he did admit he needed her, their bodies came together desperate and frenzied. He buried himself in her heat and cursed her name against the shell of her ear, holding her against his chest while she leaned back, away, ready to fall. They collapsed together, shuddering with their arms around each other, spent and empty, the gods silent.

If only he could remember what it was like in the days before this. If only he could remember what it was like the first time she kissed him, could remember what he'd said to get her to do it. What was the feeling of the first time he slid inside her, the first time she cried his name?

If only he could remember the bright, wild freedom in the days before even that, when the world was open and he craved inspiration but sought it every day?

But Sasori didn't, and didn't want to. Pain was seductive in its own chemical way.

* * *

Sasuke had never apologized to her, but then again, he hadn't needed to. Sakura had known they weren't right for each other the moment he said he wouldn't stay in her room the first night because he didn't want Shikamaru, his roommate, to notice he hadn't come back to bed and ask questions. That had been the weakest lie he'd offered her—Shikamaru was constantly sleeping anyway, and wouldn't ask questions to begin with, since when _he_ wasn't in his room, he was probably with Temari or napping on the quad. Sasuke must have known it was a terrible excuse, but he'd offered it anyway, because he knew Sakura wouldn't call him on it. And she hadn't.

The next day, they'd walked side by side on their way to a general ed history class that neither of them had managed to get out of the way freshman year. He'd stopped walking in the middle of her high-pitched laugh. "Where do you see this going?" he'd asked her.

"We're friends," she said, laugh dying, heart sinking. He'd nodded, relief painted so clearly on his face that she didn't dare to continue her sentence. _We're friends, and we could be more._

Graduation was in less than a month, and Sakura couldn't help but wonder if he was going to show up and support his "friends." Naruto seemed optimistic, but Sakura hadn't heard from him. Not that she expected him to. But with Senior Rally Day today, with Naruto waiting for them at the student union, probably already descending upon the buffet, the idea of loyalty and friendship was on her mind.

Sakura squirmed in her itchy graduation robes, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with Ino and Hinata.

"We look cheap," Ino announced, saying what they were all thinking. "We look like we don't go to a prestigious university who could be bothered to give us nice robes."

"At least they're just rentals," Hinata piped up, trying to find the bright side. "We can just give them back after graduation and never have to worry about them ever again."

Ino scoffed. "I'm in debt from this institution. I demand nice graduation robes that I get to _keep_."

"Get a PhD, Pig," Sakura told her. She wished they got the cap, but apparently, no one trusted them not to move the tassel or something. "They get those nice thick ones."

"Everyone's waiting for us," Hinata reminded them, gently pulling on both their arms. They let themselves be towed out of the bathroom, out of the dorm, onto the quad.

"You're just hungry, Hinata."

"Sorry, I just—"

Sakura tuned them out. She was sort of tempted to text Sasori a picture of her in the robes, but that seemed needlessly cruel. Neither of them had spoken about what would happen after graduation. It needed to be Sakura, she knew. Because she needed to tell him that—

Sakura stopped in her tracks. An all-too-familiar person was standing next to Naruto at the buffet line, calmly spooning udon noodles into his mouth from a tiny paper bowl. He was wearing grad robes while Naruto was in a t-shirt and jeans.

"Sasuke!" Ino screeched, running over to him and slapping him on the shoulder. Sasuke did a good job of not choking on a noodle. Naruto's grin was wide and bright. "You little shit! What are you doing here?"

Hinata's quiet smile told Sakura she'd known. Of course she would have. Sakura approached slowly, and Sasuke's eyes flitted to her face. His expression tightened for a moment, but then he tilted his head at her.

"It's nice to see you all," he said to her.

"I sneaked him in," Naruto chuckled, as quietly as he could manage. "I had to show my ID, but they just saw Sasuke in robes and let him in. It was Hinata's idea."

"You did a good job," Hinata smiled. Now it was Hinata's turn to receive a friendly Ino punch on the shoulder.

"Clevah gal!"

Someone sighed behind Sakura, and she realized they were holding up the buffet line. When it seemed like none of her friends had noticed, she was forced to take initiative. Sakura sidled closer to Sasuke and reached for a bowl. Sasuke was scooping another ladleful of udon back into his own.

"Double-dipping is rude," she joked, trying to sound casual. It worked. He smirked.

"You know everyone's gonna do it," he told her, going for another ladleful with exaggerated movement. He handed the ladle to her afterwards, and they were both careful not to let their fingers touch as she took it.

Once everyone had a bowl full of udon and other snacks on paper plates, they found a place to sit by the big picture windows on the third floor. They all seemed hesitant to bombard Sasuke with questions, except for Naruto, who kept telling stories and adding, "it woulda been _awesome_ if you'd seen the look on her face, Sasuke" and other such comments. But Sasuke didn't seem to mind.

"Are you coming to the senior ball, Sasuke?" Ino asked, slurping up her last noodle. Sasuke shook his head.

"I didn't feel like spending a fortune on a ticket just to be Naruto's date," he said. Naruto rolled his eyes and gestured to Hinata, but that was all he could manage, since he was slumped on the couch with a full belly.

"You could still sneak in like you did today! Wear a tux and seduce the ticket people."

"Ticket _people_?" Sakura smirked, pushing her empty bowl aside and leaning back against the foot of Hinata's armchair. "He's gonna seduce _all_ of them?"

"He'll look _that_ handsome in a tux, Forehead."

Sasuke laughed like he didn't mean to, a quiet huff of breath. "I don't plan on seducing anyone, Ino." He closed his eyes and leaned back in his own armchair, the picture of contented fullness. "Is that tonight? I can still hang around if not."

"Yeah, it's tonight. Come back tomorrow," Naruto encouraged him when the corners of Sasuke's mouth turned down in disappointment. It was such a slight gesture that Sakura had almost missed it. "We'll all be hungover and you can take care of us. Fun, right?"

"Sounds awesome," Sasuke agreed. "My brother makes a thing for hangovers."

"Sasuke's gonna cook for us?" Hinata smiled, but her eyes were on Naruto, who was admittedly glowing. Sakura looked at him, too. She hadn't seen him this happy all year, she realized.

"No. I'll make Itachi do it, and then I'll bring it over."

They chatted and laughed and hit each other like nothing had changed. Sasuke looked good. He sounded good. There wasn't the same depressed gloom that had followed him around all throughout junior year. Maybe he wasn't cut out for school, or maybe something—someone—else was brightening his life. It didn't matter. He seemed better.

But he lingered in the back of their small crowd when it was time to head out and prepare for senior ball.

"Hey," he said, not quite looking at her.

Sakura nodded. "Hey. Had fun?"

"Yeah."

Ahead of them, Naruto laughed and swung his arm around Hinata's shoulders. Ino sniped something at him.

"Naruto said—you're doing better," he said to her. Quietly. Sakura's eyebrows shot straight up.

"Better than what?"

Sasuke kicked a rock on the gravel path. They were almost back to Ino and Hinata's dorm.

"I met your…he calls you his muse." Sakura didn't look at him, only too aware of the scowl in his voice, much less on his face.

"I figured," she said, not giving him reason to get angrier. Better to let him assume she'd guessed than to assume Sasori was jealous or talking about him.

"He's kind of an asshole."

The remark startled Sakura into laughter, and she felt instead of saw Sasuke's disapproving frown. "He's possessive."

"Hm."

The unspoken judgment hung between them, but Sakura found she didn't really care. Justification and excuses tried to come to her lips, but it took surprisingly little amount of effort not to give in.

She'd made her choice. Sasuke didn't need to know what choice that was.

It was her life.

Not Sasori's. Not Sasuke's.

The next words out of Sasuke's mouth startled her, again. "I trust you."

"That sounds like a threat," Sakura said mildly, wishing her robes had pockets to shove her hands into.

"It's not. I do."

Sakura wished they would both look at each other. That they'd both be brave. But they both kept their eyes straight ahead. Ino and Hinata peeled off from the pack, waving goodbye, and Naruto was walking in her and Sasuke's direction, grin on his face even still.

"You're my friend, Sakura." And then she knew he was looking at her, standing back, not close. And for once the words didn't hurt, for once they were _true_. "Thanks for standing by me. I have to do the same for you. No, I want to do the same."

Sakura turned her head to smile at him, and the skin around his eyes was creased a little, his mouth twisted in an uncertain smirk, but he was looking at her, his gaze still, not darting wildly.

"You're my friend, too."

* * *

Sasori wore his suit, the one he'd worn to Konoha Gallery.

Sakura wore the green dress she had been going to wear there.

They showed their tickets and wove their way through the crowd to get to the bar set up just for tonight. Sakura held his hand, dragging him from in front, and the sight of her disappearing through walls of people made him hold tight to her fingers, letting himself be carried through the waves of people like a doll.

_You stare a lot, like a doll._

She ordered a drink, and the bartender carded her without even listening to her. She had to order again. Sasori got carded, too, expecting some sort of glance at his age—twenty-seven, now—but the bartender had dealt with too many seniors and their dates tonight and only asked if they had a voucher for their free drinks, otherwise they'd have to pay.

The music was boring. The school radio station wasn't very good at DJing, but the half-hearted grinding and jumping in the cleared conference room on the second floor was encouraging them to keep it up. Sasori commended them for trying, and he gave the juniors paid to facilitate credit for dragging couples who were just trying to mind their own business to the dance floor. A third let themselves be sucked in, but Sasori and Sakura both declined in immediate unison when an innocent junior snaked over to them.

So instead, they hung out in a different conference room on the third floor, talking about stupid things that were unrelated to school. A new book on poison that had been a recommended ad for him on his search engine results. A flower hairclip she had found abandoned on the grass outside, not dirty at all, that maybe could be haunted.

Sasori didn't talk about his upcoming thesis. Sakura didn't talk about her upcoming graduation.

But there was a photobooth, and the line was thinning out that they could see below the stairwell, and Sakura asked if he wanted to give it a go. There were dumb paper masks and plastic props to try on. It could be fun. It could be funny. Sasori agreed as soon as the words left her mouth.

The line was thankfully still short when they made their way back to the first floor. They didn't have to wait long while couples and singles posed against the SENIOR BALL sign and velvety black backdrop with ugly hats and locked lips. Everyone ignored the poster that said to stand a certain way, arms posed just so, heads tilted like that.

When it was their turn to go, Sakura put herself in the posture at first, and Sasori almost heard the photographer sigh in relief. But then she reached for him, and he let her, hands pressed lightly on his chest, on either side of his heart, and she _looked_ at him in the way he hated. The searching one, her green eyes sparkling and full of some awful knowledge. He put his hands on her waist, as gently as he could ever manage.

The camera flashed. Sakura smiled at him a second too late. Sasori hadn't smiled at all.

The photographer handed them their two copies impatiently, in little envelopes. One apiece. They were shuffled out of the way before they could properly look.

Sakura peeled hers out once they were out of the way, but Sasori couldn't bear to do the same, or to watch her face change into a sad, soft smile.

It was their first picture together. Immortalized like they never wanted to be. Sasori was sure it was their last.

* * *

Graduation was in a week. Finals were over. Sasori had pitched his thesis idea, but all he'd told her was that it had gone well. Sakura didn't know what he was planning to do, and she'd known enough by his flat tone and the line his mouth had become not to ask.

Graduation was in a week. Her parents would help her pack the day after, and they'd leave to drive home the same day. Ino's portfolio show had been stunning, as had Sai's, but now they were grumbling about how to transport their fragile paintings and frames.

Graduation was in a week. Sakura's heart ached when Sasori touched her. What had it felt like before they'd known each other's bodies so well?

Graduation was in a week. She'd sent in her official confirmation of acceptance yesterday.

Graduation was in a week. And Sasori knew nothing.

* * *

Graduation was in two days.

Deidara had gone to see one of his friends from undergrad's own master's graduation out of town—she'd had a two-year program instead of three, like theirs, but then again, she'd stuck with the hard sciences. Sasori hadn't particularly liked her and was happy to let Deidara go. But it meant the apartment was emptier than it had ever been.

Sasori didn't mind living so close to campus, but this time of year made him regret his choice of neighborhood. It was inexpensive, which meant grads and undergrads alike had recently discovered it, and with graduation coming up, the partying was loud, constant, and _insane_. He wasn't annoying enough to call the cops, but it did mean he couldn't sleep or sit long enough to work or think without someone screaming drunken nonsense at two in the afternoon or two in the evening.

Not that he was thinking about his thesis at all. The pitch was fine. A series of large wooden sculptures, abstract, mostly, and charred. He had a few sketches. Sasori had never gotten a chance to play with fire before, and while trying something new wasn't exactly the best plan for a culmination of his three years perfecting his craft, the idea lingered. He couldn't remember when he'd first thought of it.

Wood and fire. One feeding the other, parasitic and beautiful.

Sasori couldn't work on it now. Not when he had the whole summer to muse over it.

No. He couldn't think about the summer, although it was two days away. He couldn't think about Sakura leaving. He didn't even know _when_ she was leaving.

_If._

_When._

Sasori snarled, streaking his charcoal across the page. His fingers trembled, gripping the stick in his hands tight enough to make it snap, to make it crumble into black dust, ground into the lines and scars of his palm. The sketch of the delicate tree in his mind's eye taunted him, a thick black streak splitting the trunk into two uneven segments. He shouldn't've tried to add detail before he'd even finished the outline.

He had to get _out_.

Sasori rose from the couch and searched for his keys. Still in his pocket. His phone—still in his pocket, but it was buzzing. Just three times, then it stopped. He reached inside and pulled it out, not noticing his thumb smudging black charcoal into the denim.

**Can I come up? I'm outside jsyk but the gate's locked. I can leave if ur busy**

His heart was loud enough to hurt his ears. But there was a different text, from Itachi.

**Are you missing something?**

Underneath, a picture of his art toolbox. Sasori whirled around, as if the thing would materialize next to his pack of charcoal. Distantly, he remembered working at Itachi's house yesterday, watching a video with him. A prompt video, one minute per prompt. Itachi was practicing his sketches, bent over his paper so much his glasses were in danger of falling off. Sasori had felt it to be a pointless exercise, but Itachi had insisted. He'd gotten into it until the prompt suggested flowers, and he'd left too quickly to remember if he'd left anything.

Sasori responded to Itachi, saying he'd come over tomorrow, but his thumbs hesitated when he returned to Sakura's text. They quivered over the keyboard.

Fucking body. Sasori forced them to jab out a response.

**I'll come down.**

He didn't need a coat. It was almost even too summery for the long-sleeved tee he was in. Sasori double-checked his keys—still there—and headed to the door. His fingers left a dark half-handprint on the handle.

Sakura was waiting for him outside the gate to his building, looking at her phone. Scrolling. She put it in the front pocket of her shorts and looked at him through the grill. It cut abstract patterns into her face, lines and circles and edges.

Sasori unlocked the gate, and she came inside to the courtyard. He stepped back to allow her space, but she was already speaking as she headed for the front door.

"I just wanted to talk for a bit," she said. Sasori's hand shot out at her words, as if to reach for her, stop her from entering the building, but he recoiled almost instantly.

Why had that been his reaction?

But Sakura seemed to have heard the movement and stopped anyway, turning around, eyebrows pinched together. "What's up?"

"We can take a walk," Sasori made up. His voice sounded flat and expressionless even to his own ears. "I need to get out of the apartment." That much was true, at least.

Sakura nodded, too many times to be calm. They exited as if they'd never entered, leaving his apartment complex. Their footsteps echoed from the sidewalk through the neighborhood.

Where were the partying future graduates? Where was their music? Their laughter? Sasori checked his phone as they walked—maybe they were still sleeping it off. Itachi had texted back, but he didn't check.

"Someone texting you?" Sakura asked, probably not curious, probably searching for something to say.

"Left my tools at Itachi's." They walked, away from campus and towards a playground that never got used except by some of the grad students' kids. Even they were too old for it.

Sasori hated waiting. He hated being made to wait by people, by things, by long conversations.

When she finally spoke, he craved silence.

"My parents are helping me get my stuff in a few days," she said. He didn't ask when exactly. He didn't want to know. She volunteered it anyway, taking a deep, unsubtle breath before elaborating. "The day after graduation."

"That's kind of them," Sasori said, searching for some ounce of politeness. His voice was too flat, unfriendly. He cleared his throat as if to get ride of the tightness in his throat, and she looked at him, but he had nothing worthwhile to say. But she waited.

He hated making other people wait. He tried again.

"I'm looking forward to see you graduate. Are you excited?"

Sakura's head shot down, looking at her toes. He tried to keep walking. The playground was just ahead. If they could make it onto the wood chips, the sort that would get caught in your shoes no matter what kind of footwear you had, cutting into your feet and leaving splinters, they'd be safe, safe from whatever he'd started by saying the wrong thing. Because it was clearly the wrong thing.

If only she'd walk _faster_. If only they'd make it to the wood chips.

But she stopped. And Sasori stopped with her. He was just ahead of her, closer to the playground, close enough to smell the wood and plastic and metal, and he wondered if she knew it, too, knew that safety was so close by.

"I'm scared to graduate."

Sasori's heart softened.

_Mistake_ , a weak mistake, it was bared, vulnerable, hopeful, this was _dangerous_ —

"I got into grad school."

It was a risk, he couldn't think, he couldn't hope, he couldn't think Suna, he couldn't smile, his heart was soft, cover it up, slot it in a sculpture, give it to someone else, make them his emotional puppet, make them feel for him, let him avoid _feeling_ —

"It's overseas. And I'm going to go."

It was too late.

"The timezones are weird. I can't video call."

It was too late it was too late it was too late

"And I don't know if I'll have international texting for a while."

_It was too late and it hurt what was hurting why was he so still_ like a doll _and he was staring_ you stare a lot _she wasn't looking at him but she shouldn't_

"Sasori, can you say something?" She looked at him. Green eyes, arresting and wide, voice ragged and hopeful all at once, and his own were dry and unblinking.

"I'll say something: You're not saying what you really mean."

So wide. So green.

What would fire look like in them?

"Go ahead, Sakura," he shrugged, his shoulders rickety and uneven. "Say it. Be honest."

She didn't.

"Say it, Sakura." He could feel the corner of his lips pulling at his skin, trying to tug into a smile, but it was only half, and he couldn't manage the rest. "Be brave. Or I'll say it, and you won't like it."

Her mouth moved, pink lips parting, but they trembled and closed shut again.

He _hated_ waiting.

Sasori blinked, finally, his eyelids protesting and dry as bone, sticking to his eyes. He said, "You—"

"I can't do it, Sasori."

The playground, he knew, had a slide. It must have. All playgrounds had slides.

"This year—this—consumed me. I spent all my energy on it. I can't keep doing that, not when I'm going to do something I love, something I didn't pay attention to for my entire senior year. I have to do something I love for myself."

When he was three, his mother had waited for him at the bottom of the slide. "I'm right here, Sasori," she'd laughed, after he'd gone down, but he'd tried to crawl back up, hands slipping on the metal that burned in the sunlight, afraid that if he let her take him in her arms he'd never stop falling, stop sliding, the drop would never end, and his parents would hold him while the air whooshing past dried his skin and his organs kept shaking. His body would keep sinking into oblivion, colorless and dead, forever.

"Sasori, I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry. But I have to get the pieces of myself back together."

Something had zipped up his throat, the teeth of the zipper clipping against his skin. Wrenching out his vocal chords, raw and bloody in her hands. He saw them, dangling between the fingers clenched tight in her fist.

Her face was gray and fuzzy.

"Sasori?"

"Give them back," he said. His voice was dust. She blinked, slow-motion, eyelashes brushing against her lower lids as leisurely as a kiss.

"What?"

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the visions, the false realities, the fantasies— _inspirations_ —and forced his voice clear and strong.

"You took long enough," he told her, a piece of information that needed to be shared. "I knew things were changing."

"Sasori, you don't have to—"

"You can't fucking tell me what I have to do," Sasori snapped, and _snap_ was the right word for it, something tight and ready ripping apart inside of him. "I don't care what you think of me."

Was he letting her know how he felt? Did she understand what it was like to feel her own body rejecting itself, blood cells attacking any nerve it could reach, clawing and tearing and slicing and pulling? How it felt to have so many sensations assaulting her at once so that her own voice sounded foreign and distant to her ears, a future memory she wouldn't believe had come out of her own scarred throat?

Maybe. Her eyes were shimmering now. Her frozen face brought hot delight to the agony.

"I don't want you to do this."

Cruel and meaningless. He wasn't used to her being _cruel_ and _meaningless_. It made it easier, easy. He laughed, a bark of a thing that echoed around the empty playground that they hadn't managed to reach. But he didn't say anything, the remnants of the laugh making his smile twitch.

Sasori _always_ wanted to give her what she wanted. What was the point, otherwise? How else could she inspire him?

"You're important to me, Sasori," Sakura said, as softly as her thick voice could manage. She had no right to tears. "My life would have been so diff—"

"I suppose I was." His thesis was coming together in fragments. Oh, if only hadn't been like this. "I always knew how to make you feel alive." And angry. But she wasn't angry now.

"You did."

He hated her as she fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt. He would never forget it. Patterned green leaves like a tree in summer.

"I'm going to go home," she said, looking away, certainly hiding tears, and he hated her, hated her for crying, hated her for the way she had hidden this from him, hated her for her hair and her face and her body and her fire and the way she had so carelessly made the shattered pieces of his shaking skin ache to touch her.

"I loved you so much."

Sakura's head jerked up at his voice, and now he could see the tears swimming in her eyes, unfair and stunning. His own face was wooden, unresponsive.

"I think I could have loved you."

The words singed him, and as the flames licked at him, growing in size and heat, she turned around again and walked away, her back, and he couldn't see her face anymore, and she was a small silhouette in his neighborhood, and he could hear the partiers waking up and crowing at her, and his breath was coming fast in the smoke, and she was a dot in the distance, and it was ripping out of him, from his gut up his throat out his mouth like an animal, primal and agonized, and she was gone, and he was shaking like rotten flowers in the gentlest breeze.

_I could have loved you._

_I think._

Sasori's scream rattled the chains of the swings.

* * *

The sun beat down on the robes shielding her from sunburn, slamming into the cheap black fabric like it wanted to beat her into submission. Sakura blinked, delirious and sweaty in line. It took a boy nudging her, fist gently tapping her shoulder, for her to realize the President had called her name.

It wasn't even her diploma, of course, but she clutched the fake leather in her hand like it was her own lifeline. She didn't remember shaking the President's hand but must have, because her other hand was a little slick. Or maybe that was her own sweat. Maybe the President hadn't shaken her hand at all.

Sakura raised bleary eyes to survey the crowd, picking out her parents by sound rather than sight. She was the only Sakura in her year, she was sure. They yelled her name, whooping and cheering, and she managed to raise the hand holding her fake diploma to them before making her way back to her seat.

When Naruto finally got his, there was plenty of cheering, from herself included, but she heard a faint "Kick some ass, idiot" from somewhere behind her. Sakura twisted in her seat and could make out the top of a black spiky head, and something relaxed in her chest.

"C's got degrees!" she screeched, turning back around, but it was a second too late, and some other kid getting his diploma glanced in her general direction, befuddled. But Naruto, skipping off the stage, grinned huge, picking her out immediately.

The President wrapped up, short and sweet, thankfully. The crowd was itching to sweep its offspring into its congratulatory embrace. Tassels were flipped. Caps were tossed. And a great, ecstatic cry swept through the air, loud enough to make birds in the bright green trees flock to the sky.

She'd done it. She'd made it, Sakura realized as Ino hugged her, as Naruto slammed his hand on her back hard enough to make her cough, as Sasuke grinned at them all and offered congratulations, as her parents rushed over to her with cameras and tears.

Her head ached with memories, four years and eight semesters' worth of laughter and complaints and arguments swirling around her mind in a cacophony of colors.

And her heart ached with a year's worth hot touches and breathless praises and skin she knew better than her own. With a moment's worth of hurtful words and agonized declarations and an expression on a face she could never forget.

"It's fucking senior banquet!" Naruto crowed, managing to wrap them all in one giant hug with arms the length of uncut ramen noodles.

It was an acceptable time to cry, Sakura decided. No one would blame her if she did.

But it was only later, back in her room at her parents' house the next day after an hour spent bumping along in a car filled with her bags and boxes, that she truly let herself go, heaving sobs into her folded arms while snot and tears trailed down her face and made her arms wet and slippery.

Her duffel sat on unopened in a corner of her floor. An envelope with a picture lay safely in the lockbox she'd had since she was a child. And her phone was shoved in the crack between her mattress and her bedstead, buzzing with congratulatory texts from all her contacts except one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget the epilogue, friends. It might not be up as quickly as some of these have been since spring break is over, but I'll try to get it up tomorrow as usual!


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “[I]f he is to pursue beauty of the form, it’s very foolish not to regard the beauty of all bodies as one and the same…[H]e should regard the beauty of minds as more valuable than that of the body…”  
> -Plato, The Symposium

1.

Summers blew by quickly, but this one had especially flown fast. Sakura spent each day she wasn’t packing bickering with Ino, seeing movies with Hinata, donating clothes with Tenten, showing memes to Naruto, and even having a couple awkward coffees with Sasuke. When she finally boarded the plane, she was almost too harried from getting through international security and squeezing her carry-on into the last overhead spot to remember she was leaving. Stuck in the middle seat between a baby-toting young father and a chatty old man, Sakura, unbidden, began to cry. 

_They were terrible enough to make Sasori sneer, the sketches she had drawn of him during the two sessions of life-drawing he’d modeled for. The proportions were off. The shading was weak. There was a streak on his chest that didn’t match his scar, surely from where Anko had startled her from pointing out his cock. Sasori had kept them anyway, at least until Deidara had made him throw them out. They’d fought. Deidara was fast, but Sasori was always faster, leaning away from a jab and kicking Deidara in the chest with the same motion. He’d broken two ribs. It had taken the whole summer for them to heal. Sasori had shredded the sketches the first day Deidara was in the hospital._

2.

International requirements were different than what she’d expected, even after scouring the syllabi the week before classes. The semester was well underway and Sakura still didn’t feel confident she was going to pass her foreign language “suggested courses.” They were clearly requirements. She learned how to put shapes, colors, details, terms into words not her own, sounding clumsy on her lips and tongue. There was a guy who’d offered to tutor her with a smirk, with a soft voice, but she’d turned him down so fast he still wouldn’t look at her when she talked in seminar. It wasn’t quite his fault. But Sakura blamed him anyway.

_Sasori had snapped the punching bag off its chain the week after his first thesis meeting. His advisor, Sandaime, had asked him if maybe he wanted to reconsider, that yes, he’d pitched and his proposal had been accepted, but maybe he should stick to something more familiar. But Sasori_ was _familiar, knew his art and its shapes and its cuts and its cruelty and its edges and its sounds. He didn’t need to reconsider. Someone else needed to reconsider. So he’d spent too long at the bag and had cut into it once too hard, and it was fortunate his scholarship covered a couple extra incidents because he’d smooth-talked his way into absolution while craving for something else to destroy._

3.

The breakdown was inevitable. Sakura’s flatmate had complained about an essay, Sakura had told her it would feel easier once she started writing, and the flatmate had whined she wasn’t inspired, inspire me, Sakura. The world immediately went shaky on the edges, but her flatmate had thought Sakura was ignoring her and had rolled her eyes before going back to her own room. So Sakura was left with a tight chest and grey vision, fingers itching to text, to find a number she’d never memorized, to hunt through her video and phone call history for some proof that he had existed before this. But she didn’t—at least not all of it. She’d been thorough over the summer. At the very least, she’d deleted his number from her contacts.

_The first sculpture was easy. Sasori had sanded and polished the wood until it gleamed. A tree, small enough to hold in both hands, trunk thick with a whorl like a mouth, open and screaming, branches contorted around themselves clutching for purchase. But he’d been overexcited when he brought the torch to it, ready to watch the piece blacken and imagining how it would feel to see. He hadn’t contained it fast enough, and soon, the tree lay smoldering in the studio, crumpled into charcoal, and Sandaime had made him run his hands under warm water. Sasori knew the skin would scar anyway. Another mark on his body of failure._

4.

“Theatre was another form of escape,” Sakura’s least favorite professor droned, “a rewriting of empirical identity.” It occurred to Sakura that she hadn’t picked up hobbies or extracurriculars in her time abroad. Hadn’t joined an international students’ organization, hadn’t tried out for a choral group, hadn’t gone to the graduate mixers hosted frequently for the last five months. After the four-hour class—standard for her, now—she saw another graduate council flier and made a point to go to the next mixer, find something else to join. She hadn’t bothered to check the theme of the night, however, which was retro-formal. She showed up in jeans and a zip-up hoodie surrounded by creative finery—dresses and suits, photobooths with dorky props. Sakura had barely got a foot in the door before leaving, stumbling back to her flat and tearing her room apart for a photograph in an envelope that she’d asked her flatmate to hide. By the time she found it, the pain was already thudding hard in her chest, so sitting in the detritus of her room with sobs wracking her lungs over a shiny untouched photo couldn’t’ve hurt that much more.

_Why hadn’t Sasori deleted the photo? He’d thought he had, but it had saved to the cloud—somehow—which he never checked except for this time—somehow—because he was out of ideas—somehow—for how to string the beads into the perfect pattern on the chain. It was supposed to be draped over the bust of a mannequin that he’d carved to have pieces missing in the pattern of bites. A double project. Sasori’s hands, which never stopped shaking except when Itachi let him have a whiskey on the rocks, shook harder as he scrolled through cloud storage and found a single image of braided pink hair against a pale neck against white sheets. The picture had sliced him like it had reached out and papercut its way into his neck. He’d stared at it for far too long, imagining braided chains choked heavy with white beads, and maybe that could have been inspiration enough, but he_ can’t see her face like that.

5.

Sakura gave in to her new friends’ insistence that she go see a show with them. “Experience a new culture,” they’d laughed, at her foreign charm and her foreign cluelessness. What they hadn’t told her was that it was a burlesque show. While the women onstage tossed aside their undergarments with eyerolls and lewd, exaggerated gestures, Sakura eased into the bawdiness and felt herself relax and laugh alongside her friends. She’d tried not to pretend she wasn’t aroused, as did her friends, but the familiar feeling persisted when she got home, tipsy and alone. Her fingers were familiar, her sheets were familiar, and she was hurried and ungraceful and _impatient_ , and oh, how she wished in the seconds after her forced fantasies of _others_ faded and before the numbing of orgasm crashed through her skull, how she _wished_ that rising crescendo of physical ecstasy didn’t conjure memories of his face his tongue his smile his teeth his laugh _too much_ of the one time he _gonna come_ of his skin of the memory of _fuckkkkkk oh fuck that feels good fuck fuck fuck_ and she lay shivering in her bed hating herself when the bliss wore off.

_Konoha Gallery had been begging for him to come teach a workshop for months now, and Sasori had ignored the emails until Sandaime insisted. So he went, lugging his art case and sketchpad into Deidara’s car, and went to teach mediocre high schoolers how to sculpt or sketch or some bullshit. There was one kid there, a boy, who wasn’t completely talentless, and Sasori could tell because every time he paused in his sketching, he’d cast a doe-eyed gaze at a girl sitting across from him and tap his pencil point against his lips. It pissed Sasori off, the obvious distraction. He’d done the kid a favor when he slammed his hand on his sketchpad during one of these mooning stares, startling the kid into stabbing his lip with lead. “Beauty is pain,” Sasori had drawled, slowly turning his head to stare the crush down, and while the other high schoolers had been momentarily stunned, none of them missed how the stabbed boy turned as red as his blood, how the girl had looked away._

_6._

Sakura had a thesis to write, and fast. Break didn’t exist overseas, at least at this university, and she typed and studied and lost her awe for the towering stacks of books in the ancient library, and all pushed her to the finish line, a one-year program spiraling to a close before she realized. She tried not to, tried not to think about another thesis, but she still wondered— _no_. She didn’t.

_The pair of clasped hands came out well. Burning them, leaving them charred rather than ashen, was satisfying. Sasori took pleasure in hammering them to the mannequin bust, straight through with a long, lethal nail._

7.

The biology minor hadn’t been completely useless, at least. Or maybe it was the biochem elective. Either way, while her friends groaned and complained about learning the chemistry behind restoration, Sakura was days ahead of the readings on the syllabus. She’d asked the graduate advisor if she could find a way to incorporate the chemistry of art into her thesis—first draft of which she’d already received delightfully scathing comments on—he’d only shrugged and told her as long as it was handed in on time. How different from her undergraduate studies. And how odd it was to say her “undergraduate studies,” because in two months she would have “graduate studies” to reminisce about.

_Itachi always stopped him at two drinks. “Fuck you,” Sasori had said that night, waving the bartender over. He wasn’t so drunk that the bartender paid attention to Itachi’s glare. Another day, another dollar, another tip. Sasori always tipped. So he’d thrown back three whiskeys that night, and he’d been fine, and he’d gone home and had been fine, throwing clay in haphazard heaps on the wheel, but somewhere between his foot missing the pedal and his drunken hands slipping, something in his grandmother’s wheel stuck, creaked, broke. Sasori hadn’t thought much of it at the time, sculpting eyeless birds with his fingers, but in the morning when he woke up, headache in his skull and dried clay under his nails, he couldn’t manage to find out what was wrong._

8.

Sometimes—often—Sakura would catch herself thinking about him. Some days she’d been _so good_ , she hadn’t thought about him all day, and then the guy in her cohort she’d rejected would smirk at her, or her flatmate would sit in her chair at the kitchen table—something she’d never minded until _that instant_ —or something small like how someone at the laundromat used his detergent and then—! Some days she’d been even better, she hadn’t thought about him at all until she realized she hadn’t thought about him at all except now she’d thought about him and so her streak was ruined and she was awful and would never move on.

_Itachi had stormed into his apartment when Deidara was there. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Deidara had yelled, brandishing steel wire like a flail, but Itachi had completely ignored him and shook Sasori’s shoulder as Deidara sputtered and threatened and raged. “We haven’t heard from you in days,” Itachi snapped, so unlike him, and Sasori raised his eyes from his carving to glance at his phone. It blinked with who knew how many notifications. “I was working,” Sasori said, well aware of how flat his voice was, but when he turned around to face Itachi he had no idea what his expression looked like to him. But whatever it was, it made Itachi stiffen and release his shoulder, catch himself as he almost backed away._

9.

Her parents had flown all this way to see her graduate, Sakura’s second graduation in less than a year. It felt less momentous in a way, but she still teared up as she raised her diploma to them, their hands clasped over their mouths in the polite and silent crowd. Her thesis would be online soon, and while Sakura dreaded receiving the print copy in the mail, it would be mailed to an address back home. Back _home_. Home for real, across the ocean, with few job prospects ahead of her. But she could stay there, at least for a time, testing her scars. Part of her felt ill at the prospect. What if she ran into him? What if he found her? What if she still loved him? What if she’d ever loved him? what if what if what if what if—and finally, her parents held her, and the flight was long, and Sakura’s heart raced no matter if she thought of him at all, but the other part of her had fooled itself she was ready to try, ready to lie, ready to stab a finger into a bruise and feel fury when it dared to hurt.

_His thesis was not to be consumed by the masses. It was meant to consume them. Thick chains suffocated a scorched tree. Half an eviscerated, decorated mannequin swooned against it, hand in hand, nails in skin. Itachi had told him not to do it, but Sasori hadn’t listened, and had ripped up the photo worn away by his fingerprints, set each piece aflame, and had rubbed their ashes into the intricate details carved into every surface of the work. Details like flames and eyeteeth and flowers, so many flowers scraped into the grain that the piece was violent with them, choking each other with their leaves, petals slicing like razors against their cores, and all was made clear in sharp relief with ash. Sasori wore his suit and felt her nails tear away the lapel as he presented, felt her hands sliding up his throat as he talked, felt her teeth bite his bone as he clutched his degree. She was everywhere, she was Sakura in his blood, she was a little death picking him apart piece by piece, and he couldn’t lie and he couldn't forgive._

* * *

 

**I’ve never missed you. I regret everything.**

* * *

 

**[end]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, ten days and ~40k words later, here we are at last. Thank you for humoring me and my many, many typos! Thank you for your comments, follows, hits, bookmarks! This was a really good timed writing challenge for me to undertake. It's been a decade since I've written Narutoverse fic and my first time writing SasoSaku. I really wouldn't've found the courage to keep going without your support.
> 
> Looking forward to hearing your thoughts now that we've come to the end. If you'd be interested in some little one-shot chapters in another fic, let me know! If you feel things wrapped up as they should've, let me know that, too!
> 
> In the meantime, I'm wiped. Peace out, SasoSaku kids.


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